Renewed By Love
by wryter501
Summary: Arthur knows and welcomes and appreciates Merlin as his personal sorcerer - and under his reign, Camelot has slowly come to accept the inevitable return of magic. But how will the other kings of Albion react to Camelot's change of policy? - Alined, Odin, Caerleon... sequel to "Refined by Fire" and "Released by Truth". Arwen, Merthian, other non-canon pairings.
1. Lancelot

**Renewed By Love**

 **Part I: Lancelot and Alayna**

 **Chapter 1: Lancelot**

His adult life had been characterized by disappointed longing and unfulfilled ambition, thus far. To have a family, after his own was so brutally taken. To find a purpose for his hard-learned skills beyond simple vengeance.

Three and a half years ago, he had begun to hope that things might have changed for him, and perhaps in Camelot. He'd met a girl who was intelligent and caring, practical and beautiful. He'd made a friend who promised to help him achieve his goal of usefulness.

Disappointed longing – Gwen had a prince who'd risk his life to rescue her; she didn't need him the way he'd needed her. And unfulfilled ambition – acting like the knight he'd wanted to be had caused the king he'd sworn his allegiance to banish him to the life of an ignoble mercenary.

But now.

Now he felt the welcome weight of responsibility and potential, every step he took in the chainmail and crimson cloak, every glance of admiration and respect from the people in the lower-town marketplace. Now he felt the gentle flutter of a different sort of responsibility and potential, a young lady's hand at his elbow, her earnest glance and innocent smile.

His skills sworn in service to an even better king, an even better kingdom. His life pledged – privately – to a young lady who did seem to need a protector.

Except…

Was he good enough. Still common-born… Was he ever going to be enough to fill his own aspirations and hopes?

"Do you think we'll have many more days like this one," Lady Alayna said wistfully, tipping up her chin to gaze at the last streaks of daylight in the sky. "Or will we have to wait for next year?"

He wondered if it was presumptuous of him to hope her _we_ encompassed no more than the two of them. "The harvests are almost in," he answered. "First snowfall on the mountain peaks…"

"How many mountains have you seen?" she asked, childishly sweet and perfectly serious. He used to think he'd seen too much – but for a young lady brought up in seclusion due to the danger her magic placed her in, as a daughter of one of Uther's lords, his experiences held evident fascination. And therefore, new worth to him.

"I never did keep count, my lady," he told her.

She gave her short black curls a little shake, and sighed. He knew what she was thinking, she'd said it many times before on their little rambles through Camelot's streets – more freedom than she'd taken in her own home of Descalot, far to the north. But Lancelot would not use her name because he had no right to… even if he sometimes dreamed of whispering against those black curls at her temple, or against that rosebud mouth. _Oh, Ally_ …

"Do you think they'll be back this week?" she said then, as they skirted the potter's stall. "The princess says they came to speak with Merlin as much as with King Arthur, but if they have to wait for days and days…"

Lancelot gave her a smile, covering her hand on his elbow with his other. Strictly speaking, Alayna of Descalot was the highest-ranking lady in Camelot – but she was also an ostensible hostage for her father's loyal guardianship of the northern border shared with King Odin. And shy as only a noble magic-user raised in Uther's Camelot could be; she never went to the lower town without him or Gwen or Gaius, though any pair of the knights could easily have provided escort. And after five months – and a few amendments to Camelot law - the rumors and whispers about her _talents_ had died down.

From what he'd seen and how Alayna spoke, it was Gwen doing the practical majority of hostessing and entertainment for the visiting female royalty. Sister of Sir Elyan didn't quite convey a title to Gwen, but it didn't seem to matter much to anyone of note. And that was the reason, he tried to assure himself, why the young lady on his arm anticipated her cousin's return. So the visitors would conclude their business and Camelot's citadel could relax, and perhaps so that she could return to the afternoon lessons in magic Merlin's departure with the troop sent north had interrupted.

Not because…

"Do you have plans for tomorrow?" he asked solicitously, skirting her around a puddle that had formed in a dip in the cobbled road.

She sighed. "We're getting out of the citadel, at least," she said – and gave him an adorable grimace. "Going riding, bringing lunch with us, maybe."

He sympathized. Out of the citadel was good, but it was one of the things he'd had to adjust to as well, the time a knight spent in the saddle. Not something Alayna was used to – nor Gwen, he supposed – for all the time she spent in her father's stables in Descalot, growing up. It was probably an outing calculated to appeal to the princess.

A faint distant sound behind them caught his attention – the hooves of a horse, more than one, and without the accompaniment of wagon wheels – a half-second before he noticed others on the street pause in various day-end chores to look up. Alayna halted obediently as he did, but looked up at him in puzzlement before following his gaze to the far end of the street.

Riders dressed as he. Knights. Too early for the patrol's return, and the second rider was out of armor – black hair, which meant –

"Not only this week," he said to Alayna, still watching the riders. "But _today_."

"Oh, good," she said involuntarily, smile lit and brows up.

And part of him that had hurt to see the way Gwen looked at Arthur – even though he was glad to see the way his king looked back at her – _hesitated_. He couldn't quite convince himself that it wouldn't happen again.

"All hail, Sir Lancelot!" Gwaine called out as soon as the mounted party had gotten close enough for greetings. "And my lady of Descalot, good evening to you."

Beside Lancelot, hand still gripping the crook of his elbow, Alayna bobbed a grave but amused curtsy. Merlin was grinning, too, as he swung his leg over the back of his horse to dismount.

"I'll be along shortly," he promised Gwaine, who bent to retrieve the reins of Merlin's mount from his hand, as the other riders passed to continue on their way to the citadel. Several of them gave Lancelot a silent-friendly nod, which he returned gladly.

"The report won't take long," Gwaine said, by way of answer. "And I'm telling Arthur that you said not to wait dinner."

"Not that he'd wait dinner for me, anyway," Merlin said wryly, as Gwaine nudged his horse to follow the others, leading Merlin's.

And then Alayna moved, leaving Lancelot's side to throw her arms around Merlin's neck, he embracing her gently but just as readily. Lancelot averted his eyes, watching the retreating troop, but he was standing close enough to hear the two.

"How was your journey, cousin?"

"Long," Merlin said lightly. "But with Gwaine in the company, at least it's never boring."

"How did you find Descalot? My father?" From the corner of his eye, Lancelot noticed that they'd released each other, but still stood close.

"Intact. Bustling. Lord Bernard is busy, of course, with the defense of the border. But satisfied with the state of things, I think. I should discuss it with Arthur first… Did Gaius let you try anything new this fortnight?"

Lancelot was briefly startled as Merlin moved next to him, still speaking to the lady – but offering him a wide smile and a hand in greeting. Which he took wholeheartedly, glad to see his unique young friend returned safe and sound, body and spirit. He noticed the slightest pinching at the corners of Merlin's eyes – but if there was something, it was relatively minor, and not something the young sorcerer would probably bring up before Alayna, or to Lancelot rather than Arthur.

"No," Alayna said mournfully. Slipping her hand into the corner of Lancelot's elbow again – he felt warm and complete – but taking Merlin's arm, too. Lancelot's feet moved of their own accord, back toward the citadel with the lady and her cousin. "It's been all books and memorization and herbs, with Gaius."

"Oh, poor Ally," Merlin said, mock-sympathetic. "I suppose you'll want a practical lesson tomorrow, but –"

Alayna said, unintentionally over Merlin's last words, "Oh but there's royalty visiting, so –"

Realizing she'd interrupted, she stopped herself – but Merlin was leaning ahead of Alayna to give Lancelot a slight frown of intensity, the young lady between them all but forgotten. Lancelot slipped his hand over hers at his elbow, again.

"Visiting royalty?" Merlin said. "Who? There was nothing planned when we left."

"King Rodor of Nemeth," Lancelot told him. "Evidently the personal reasons the trip was delayed through the summer were resolved and so, they came."

"Surprise," Alayna said, making light of the polite scramble Camelot had done to accommodate the visit, herself included, as hostess for a good part of the princess' time.

"Nemeth," Merlin repeated, turning his head to gaze toward the citadel – in clear sight now as they neared the end of the street. "And – everything's been going smoothly? Everyone getting along? No – incidents?"

"No," Alayna said.

Lancelot followed her answer with a more cautious, "None that we're aware of."

"And the dragon's egg?"

There was a curious intensity to the question. Lancelot wondered, but answered, "No, it's fine."

"The princess was absolutely delighted to see it," Alayna mentioned. "She wants to come back next spring when you hatch it."

Merlin made a thoughtful noise, but when he looked aside again, his smile was back and included both of them. "So it's been bustling and busyness here, too? I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening stroll, then."

"Don't be," Alayna said.

"Not at all," Lancelot assured him.

"We have tomorrow," Alayna reminded him, tightening her grip on his arm as they passed the guards stationed at the courtyard gate. "Our ride, and the picnic lunch. King Arthur probably can't join us, but – oh, Merlin! You could, couldn't you?"

"I'm sure Arthur has something in mind for me with our company," Merlin answered, head tipped up to glance over the lighted windows of the citadel. "And there's some other business I need to see to…"

Business that put that tension by Merlin's eyes? Lancelot wondered. But the next moment, his young friend had shaken off his concern.

"You're going for a ride?" he said to Alayna. "Perhaps we could meet. At the ruins at noon?"

"Yes, let's," Alayna said.

Lancelot wanted to say something admirable and noteworthy, but could think of nothing, as they climbed the grand staircase still arm-in-arm. Maybe he was wrong about Merlin and Alayna; he didn't know whether to selfishly hope he was wrong, or…

"Banquet in the dining hall, tonight?" Merlin guessed. "I may have to excuse myself as too tired and dirty from traveling."

Alayna objected, "There's still time to –"

"Time which Arthur will take up, discussing our trip, and then say, Why are you still filthy? Stop blinking like you're about to fall asleep on your feet."

His mimicry of their king made Alayna laugh – and Lancelot smiled inadvertently, happy that she was happy. It wasn't often that he could make her laugh.

"He'll want you, too," Merlin added to Lancelot, as they paused on the landing.

"Me?" Lancelot said, taken aback by his friend's certainty. He found himself looking down bemusedly at his curly-haired lady, as if she could explain, but she was surprised also.

"Then I shall hope to see one of you at dinner, at least," she said, offering him her hand. "Otherwise Gwaine will insist on talking."

Her hand was small and soft and cool in his; he always marveled that she seemed so ready to let him hold it again. And when he kissed the smooth skin on the back of her hand, he could smell the faint light-flower scent of whatever lotions she used. He was not as well-versed in such things as Gwaine, he couldn't name which flower, but it was his favorite, no matter what the blossom might look like, or what name it might carry.

"I will be there," he promised.

She glanced once over her shoulder, the fourth stair from the top, but Merlin had shifted to put his back to that stair, facing instead the corridor they'd take to reach Arthur's chamber, and didn't see. Lancelot raised his hand, and Alayna disappeared with a smile.

"Honestly, unless Arthur gives me a direct order," Merlin murmured, "I'd rather get an early start in the morning, and go straight to bed now. Maybe by way of the kitchen. Maybe even if he does try to order me…"

"You ran into some trouble, then?" Lancelot said. Their pace increased, now that it was just the two of them. "I didn't see any evidence of injury to the troop."

"No, not really. We came across a new druid encampment and there was a bit of tension, but –" Merlin shrugged. "Nobody drew their sword or hurled a curse. Gwaine shared a drink with some of the young fellows and their clan elder spoke with Sir Sindran about rumors he'd heard of Gawant."

"Unrest?" Lancelot suggested.

"I'm not certain. The dragon's egg was mentioned… and Odin." Merlin glanced at him sideways, and he nodded – of course he'd keep the mention of both to himself. "I," the sorcerer announced, more lightly, "was mobbed by the children to craft magical creatures out of the campfire flames." He cast a grin at Lancelot as he lifted his fist to knock on the king's door.

So that was why he was so cheerful, in spite of the hints of potential trouble ahead. It occurred to Lancelot that Merlin ought to have children of his own someday; he seemed to be very good with them, especially Orryn's son Tobe.

And then, _why's he knocking_? in the moment it took for Merlin's hand to drop, and push the door open without waiting for verbal permission for admittance.

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur said, a reflexive reprimand.

The king was seated in his high-backed armchair, sideways to the head of his table. Dressed in formal finery – golden-dragon embroidered on the crimson tunic over his chainmail, the matching cape hooked over one side of the back of his chair – and facing Gwaine and Sir Sindran. But even Lancelot, remaining respectfully in the corridor between the two stationed guards, could see that Arthur didn't quite mean it, and couldn't quite stop his smile.

"Rude as ever, I see."

"What did you think would happen, sending me to the wild north for two weeks?" Merlin answered, leaning his elbow informally on a high narrow table against the side wall. "All my manners are gone."

"Good, we can finally start to teach you better ones," Arthur shot back.

Gwaine retreated from his place – without waiting for permission, either – and paused in the doorway by Lancelot. "I wish you very good luck, my friend," he said inexplicably, punching Lancelot's shoulder lightly.

Lancelot started to say, "What for?" but was distracted by Sir Sindran concluding his report and being dismissed by the king – and then Gwaine was gone, along with the troop captain.

"Come in, Lancelot, and close the door behind you," the king said, looking down to rearrange some sheets of parchment on the table.

He obeyed with some trepidation, trying to think if there was anything untoward in his behavior of late that he was ignorant of, and that Arthur should have to correct – but Merlin was still grinning like a… like a very young boy, he amended mentally, skirting the term that the king habitually used.

"Come sit," Arthur added, kicking the leg of the chair nearest him at the table in invitation. "This isn't a matter of state. It's a personal thing I – we – wanted to discuss with you."

Lancelot paused in lowering himself into the seat, and glanced over at Merlin. His young friend, still smiling to himself, reached to pour some wine into a goblet from a pitcher on the side table, then leaned between them to set it at Lancelot's elbow. He shifted, uncomfortable at being served by the sorcerer; Arthur's eyes tracked his former servant without betraying his thoughts.

"The lady Alayna," the king said.

Lancelot tensed away from the back of his chair, his fingers twitched away from the goblet. "I… beg your pardon?"

Merlin circled round the back of Arthur's chair, to hook one arm around the knob atop the chairback casually. He was still smiling in that joy-humor-sharing way he had. "You like her, don't you? You're in love with her?"

Intuitive – yet gentle, with a notable lack of jealousy, and Lancelot's secret bared by another didn't hurt, exactly. Just – ached, with fond regret that Merlin evidently knew his heart better than he expected. Always had, hadn't he?

Lancelot gripped the arms of his chair and dropped his eyes to his boots. "I… I shouldn't be. I know."

He had to swallow then, and meant to go on with a promise that it would not interfere with his duties nor the young lady's activities. Had someone else complained? He didn't believe Alayna minded their time spent together; she always seemed pleased, and he was sure she'd sought him out on occasion, but…

"Why not?" Arthur said.

Probably Merlin could read the emotion behind that question and that look, but not Lancelot. "She is a lady, Sire, and I'm just a –"

"A knight," Merlin put in, his smile easing toward seriousness.

Lancelot reminded them both, "Common-born."

"A knight," Arthur said firmly – then glanced up at Merlin. "Don't let it go to your head, but this time I think you were right – he was never going to say anything."

"Because her father –" Lancelot protested.

"Her father," the king said, flattening his hand over the papers on the table, "wrote to me about Alayna's prospects for marriage."

Lancelot had to swallow again, and found that he couldn't, without the help of a gulp of wine from the goblet Merlin had poured. A curious sinking sensation trickled from his temples down his neck, through his chest, leaving emptiness in its wake. He wanted to say something like, _that's good_. He wanted to feel like, that was good.

"Perhaps you'd like to read his response?" the king offered, flipping one page so that its edge beckoned to Lancelot.

 _I don't read that well_. Not a skill generally taught among children of his station, growing up. And not one he'd taken to as readily as the sword, when he had nothing else to turn to. The rough basics he'd mastered before he'd come to Camelot the first time, had been polished a bit more over the winter spent with Merlin and Gwaine – who sometimes corrected Merlin, surprisingly enough – in the ruined castle an hour's ride from the citadel.

Lancelot took the paper – Merlin nodded encouragingly – and cleared his throat.

" _Bernard, Lord of Descalot and Protector of the Northern Marches of the sovereign kingdom of Camelot._

 _To Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, my lord and my liege, Greetings._

 _I admit to experiencing some initial surprise, when my young cousin broached the subject of Alayna's marriage, in the midst of our talks of guarded borders and defensive magic. That was a hope I mourned as lost, when first we discovered her magic. After several days of consideration and adjustment, however, I find myself relieved and delighted at the possibility of giving her hand in marriage – as well as the future of the Descalot estate and family line – to some deserving young man._

 _Alayna is young, but to my knowledge has formed no preference for anyone here. My cousin Merlin, however, assures me of his belief in her growing attachment to a certain young knight of yours. I confess that I do not recall the Sir Lancelot mentioned_ -"

His fingers fluttered the page, as the words swam. Sir… Lancelot. Truly? No – a jest? He looked up at the other two. Arthur's smile lurked, while Merlin's spread wide and free, but to Lancelot's eyes, they had never looked more alike.

"Finish it," Merlin suggested softly. And Lancelot been wrong - the affection there was entirely familial, then.

" _But his common birth_ –" Lancelot's voice trembled – " _does not concern me as much as his character, particularly in reference to his attitude toward magic. I trust Ally's judgment even in a subject with which she is inexperienced, I trust also my cousin's word. My concerns are laid to rest with Your Highness' recommendation, and my permission is hereby given for Sir Lancelot of Camelot to court my daughter the Lady Alayna. I look forward to receiving news of a betrothal before the new year, if the knight's intentions are serious and honorable_."

Permission. Betrothal.

"Well?" Merlin prompted. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? You're just too noble and humble ever to ask for something for yourself."

Lancelot shook his head, staring at the black and white missive uncomprehending, the swoop of the script capturing the feeling of his stomach. "I… I could never…"

"Make her happy?" Merlin said. "You already do, my friend."

A pair of large fingers slipped over the top edge of the parchment, and Lancelot released the sheet to the claim of his king. He met Arthur's eyes, certain that the king would understand more than a former servant from a farming village, in this instance. Yes, Merlin would think of love. But –

"I could never manage an estate," he said, so low it was almost a whisper. "She needs someone who knows… who can do… whatever that entails."

Arthur leaned forward. "If you love her," he said, matching Lancelot's tone and intensity, "I will see to it that you learn whatever you need to know. You will be Leon's right hand, starting tomorrow –"

"Day after tomorrow," Merlin interjected. "He's taking her on a picnic tomorrow."

Lancelot felt his face warm; Arthur glanced momentary irritation up at his unrepentant sorcerer. "And it will not take you long, Lancelot, I firmly believe it. Bernard and I would both rather see Descalot in the hands of someone we trust, than not. And, barring accident or illness, it may be a couple of decades before you and Alayna would inherit the estate completely. Plenty of time for you to absorb Descalot's idiosyncrasies. Although it'll mean that you remain in Camelot with Leon when we leave on our own royal visits…"

"I…" Lancelot's mouth and mind were empty of words, because – wasn't personal disappointment his destiny? Of course knighthood was his at last, but he'd figured family was too much to ask for, even as his heart had been gently guiled from him by the young sorceress, he knowing and she unaware. And now he had permission to remain in Camelot with her, and need not spend every day apart worrying over her welfare and happinesss.

"Say yes," Merlin prompted. "Or Arthur will feed you to Nemeth."

"What?" Lancelot said.

"I'll feed _you_ to Nemeth," Arthur growled at Merlin, who shrugged unperturbed. To Lancelot's slight frown – quickly smoothed, he hadn't the right to question – Arthur added in explanation, "Rodor trusts that our policies on magic are genuinely changed, and Gedref is no longer contested, but they've proposed alliance by marriage."

By Merlin's roll of expressive blue eyes, it was not an unexpected development. "They wanted to give their princess to you?"

Lancelot tensed, leaning forward, _wondering_ – not because he thought Gwen wanted him any longer – she hadn't for a very long time, and he'd finally made his peace with that, but because…

"Of course you declined," Merlin went on confidently.

"Of course I did," Arthur confirmed – and Lancelot knew why his king threw him a swift glance, though he only dropped his eyes deferentially. "They didn't understand, not when I haven't even entered a betrothal – don't look at me like that, you know Gwen was the one who wanted to wait –"

"One more month," Merlin said lightly.

"But they weren't offended, and suggested perhaps a nobleman or knight. Therefore," the king turned back to Lancelot, "I need to know whether you want to try your luck with Ally, or if I should add you to the list for Nemeth's choice."

"Sire, I –"

"Don't put it like that, Arthur." Merlin leaned down to snag one of Arthur's pages, and Arthur allowed it. "Ally will say yes." He shot Lancelot the very same sort of delighted smile he'd worn at their unexpected knighting ceremony, the day of Arthur's coronation. Proud of and glad for Lancelot.

He felt a little dizzy, himself. To be permitted – encouraged, to speak his mind and heart to his lady… Incredible.

"Is this your list of potential suitors?" Merlin added. "Who wrote it up? it's not done in your hand."

"Orryn helped," Arthur grumped. "No one tells me who fancies who unless they're actually asking permission to marry."

Merlin hummed, scanning the page. "Not Sir Peredur," he said, "he's in love with the baker's eldest. You might drop a word that you wouldn't mind his marriage to a commoner, Arthur."

The king snorted. "Duly noted. You sure you don't want to take this whole stack of paperwork, since I'm certain you want to be excused from the company, tonight, and blame me for it at the same time?"

Organizing his papers, Arthur pushed his chair away to stand – maybe intending to head to his desk, but he came to his feet facing Merlin. His former manservant, for his part, immediately reached to pin and position his ceremonial cape, tugging to straighten wrinkles in a professional, efficient – but still intimate manner, and the king simply stood and allowed. Lancelot courteously rose to his feet also.

"No, Orryn's solid," Merlin said, eyes on the king's right shoulder. "And I'll meet our guests from Nemeth tomorrow, I swear."

"I suppose you have a better reason than timidity, for avoiding them tonight?" Arthur said with provoking sarcasm.

A quick grin flashed over Merlin's face as he finished. "We heard rumors that Odin wants to steal the dragon's egg. I'm going to hide it in the ruins and leave an illusion here, just in case."

"There's always _rumors_." Arthur gave a hard sigh, but even Lancelot could recognize capitulation. "It's too dark to ride out tonight. Get some rest, Merlin, and go early. But back here in time for the banquet tomorrow night, on your life."

"Yes, my lord," Merlin said cheerfully. He took Arthur's papers from his hand, allowing the king to turn to the side table for his golden circlet – not as heavy or formal as the coronation crown, but necessary for the august company of another monarch. "Lancelot, I'll see you tomorrow? Better hurry down, or Gwaine will take the seat next to Ally."

Lancelot almost forgot his manners to turn his back on the king and open the door to leave without dismissal. But Arthur wore an amused half-smile, meeting him at the door as he pulled it open for his sovereign; Merlin crossed the room to Arthur's desk, never interested in acting on protocol, even if he remembered it.

"So," the king said, angling his shoulders as an unspoken request for Lancelot to walk with him as he headed down the corridor. The two guards fell in behind them, surreptitious and discreet. "I hope you'll forgive us for meddling in your affairs, Lancelot, but Merlin was convinced you both would end up unhappy if someone didn't give a little push – and he wasn't wrong, was he?"

"I would never have dared request her hand," Lancelot answered honestly.

"Any ideas how you'll present the proposal to her?" Arthur went on. "Merlin says girls like flowers, and it should probably be private, don't you think? Problematic getting a lady on her own without a chaperone for reputation's sake, though…"

A sudden thought hit Lancelot, and actually served to stabilize his whirling thoughts and emotions. Arthur was _nervous_ , facing a similar situation himself. Imagine that; Lancelot almost let his smile show on his face.

He said mildly, "I expect I'll just wait for an opportunity to present itself. And bring her flowers after…"

After Alayna said yes. To him.

Lancelot shivered, and almost missed the last stair.

"I suppose you're right," the king said doubtfully. "Well, my friend, changes are coming again – and life is never going to be the same."

Change for the better, Lancelot could not but believe.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Refined by Fire_ was, in my mind, the story of Arthur's acceptance of Merlin's magic. And _Released by Truth_ was the story of Camelot's reaction and moving toward acceptance. _Renewed by Love_ is meant to be the story of the other kingdom's reactions… which means, probably _long_.

I've decided to tell it in a series of shorter tales that fit into the larger narrative, in five parts that also tell a love story, each – in the style of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King" – though this is by no means a romance, overall. There will be action, also. Each part will feature a chapter (or more) from both male and female pov for each couple – and we'll get to Arthur and Merlin pov by the end, I promise!

School is out, which means more free time for writing – yay! But I'm going for a week's vacation tomorrow, which means less time for writing… so I can't promise when the next chapter will be up. But, it'll be Ally's pov – and Merlin meets Mithian!

 **Merthian:** I'm normally a Freylin shipper. But this story begins in-canon, and after Freya's death. And I also think Merlin deserves romance… so instead of creating an OC love-interest, or resurrecting Freya (and let's face it, it's never a good thing, in-canon, to have folks return from the dead), I'm going to try my hand at pairing him with Mithian… Feel free to tell me how I'm doing, as we go along!


	2. Ally

(Part I: Lancelot and Alayna)

 **Chapter 2: Ally**

Ally had been impressed by Gwen very quickly upon her arrival in Camelot that spring, riding with Gwaine and Lancelot and worried over facing Arthur and Merlin. Five months later, and her opinion of her unique friend had only improved.

Gwen could roll her eyes or raise her brows at the king himself. At Merlin, a sorcerer of abilities that never failed to astound Ally. Sometimes even at the gruff and formidable court physician. And the next moment, stoop to speak to and smile at the dirtiest village urchin.

She could also face the occasional snide comment or arrogant sneer from the handful in Camelot who still mistrusted magic and Merlin, with calm and graceful humility. Ally had believed from the beginning that she could do much worse than truly befriend Gwen and emulate some of her characteristics, lacked by Ally herself.

Self-confidence with visiting royalty was one.

They'd begun tentative friendship, the three of them, their first meeting when Gwen encouraged Ally to offer a tour of the citadel, which she'd then mostly led herself, over the realization that all three of them had lost their mothers quite young. After that, making conversation had seemed to come easier, though Ally felt more comfortable as listener.

"No, our delay and uncertain timing was due entirely to my sister-in-law," Mithian answered Gwen. They were riding just ahead of Ally on the narrow forest trail; Gwen in a sturdy but attractively embroidered burgundy-orange gown over a white tunic, Mithian in a delicate gold blouse with a butternut-striped vest over matching riding skirt. Over her collarbones, was a trio of gold feathers, strung together and hanging from her neck for ornament. "We expected her to birth my brother's second child two months ago, but it seems our court physician's calculations were a bit off."

"Oh, congratulations then," Gwen said, with sincere enthusiasm. "You must be so proud – and glad. Did she have a very hard time?"

" _I_ wasn't told," Mithian said, sounding amused, inviting Gwen to share in the humor at her own expense, an unmarried girl kept innocent of these secrets. "They both seemed fine to me, two days later when visitors were allowed."

"Now is that your eldest or middle brother?" Gwen wondered.

"Ybor, he's my middle brother. Antor is the eldest, Prince Regent because he won't let my father abdicate entirely. He has three children himself now, but there's gossip about another after the new year."

"A big family," Gwen said with satisfaction palpable to Ally, between them and Mithian's two attendants bringing up a discreet rear.

"Heaven bless them," Mithian said cheerfully. "And you? I met your brother Sir Elyan the other night…"

"That's my only family," Gwen sighed. "Just the two of us, now."

Ally made an involuntary noise of dissent – love made family, not blood, and Gwen was loved by lots of people in Camelot. But that drew the attention of both other girls over their shoulders – though not Lancelot in the vigilant lead – and questioning looks.

"I think," Ally tried to explain, "you have more brothers than just Sir Elyan."

Gwen's smile bunched her brown cheeks in realization and rueful agreement; Mithian cocked her head thoughtfully, and didn't face forward. "Do you have any brothers, Lady Ally?"

"I have a cousin," she said, instead of thinking of the little life her mother had taken with her own, so as not to pass damning magic to another child.

"That's Merlin, isn't it?" Mithian's question was mostly just for confirmation of remembered information.

The princess reined her mount in momentarily, to ride beside Ally along the path; she had a thin face and luminous eyes, smile-lines at their corners and beside her mouth, and most days Ally had trouble deciding if she was pretty, or not. The only other woman who'd ever struck her so, was Merlin's mother Hunith, who'd visited for a fortnight at the height of summer. Love and happiness gave her beauty, rather than any physical or facial feature or attribute.

Gwen smiled back at them and seemed content with the new arrangement, glancing out at the woodland scenery rather than trying to join or engage Lancelot ahead of her on the trail.

"King Arthur said, he had an important duty to see to, upon his return yesterday, and this morning I heard he was not even in the citadel," Mithian said. "Do you know what he's doing?"

"Yes," Ally said cautiously.

"But you can't tell me what," Mithian guessed, without offense. "It's just – well, we were very curious to hear that Arthur had pardoned a sorcerer – who happened to be his manservant, and someone thought executed, for a very long time. Arthur explained a bit about his thought processes, but I'm sure there's a lot behind his unshaken determination that this sorcerer is a good man. I'd just like to know what."

Ally found it easy to smile at her. "As would I, and all of us. Arthur's right, of course; Gwen could tell you some stories – and a few of the knights as well."

Mithian made a thoughtful noise. "But not all of the knights are best pleased to have magic allowed after decades of fighting against it," she said, a softly-neutral observation. "Nor yet all the nobility of Camelot?"

The glance she shot Ally from keen brown eyes made her flush, and stare at her reins. "You are right," she admitted. "There are those. My status and title gives me a certain amount of protection from most unpleasantness – and the freedom to avoid it where I expect it – but Merlin…" She sighed, and Mithian remained silently attentive. "He tries not to mind too much. One day at a time, one person at a time, and you can't win them all."

"He's teaching you magic, isn't he?" Mithian asked.

Ally nodded, shy again about revealing the depth of her wonder and admiration and excitement about magic itself, her abilities and studies, either of her two special tutors, Gaius and Merlin. Shy about boring the other girl, blurting too much in her emotion.

"I suppose there are those who aren't happy about that, either," Mithian guessed, her tone gentle irony.

Ally shrugged, her shoulders warming under her gray satin dress as the horses ambled through a patch of sunlight dappling the path. "Not surprising, really – it's a complicated thing for a person to change their mind. Everyone is different – different reasons, different ways and means – even people who refuse to consider changing."

"Such as?" Mithian said.

Again Ally balked at replying, wishing a little that Gwen was part of this conversation; she could decline specificity graciously.

"I have a reason for asking, you see," the princess went on. A bit more slowly, uncertainly, self-consciously, as if she were the one now on the brink of a confidence she wasn't sure she should indulge in, since they were members of different kingdoms. "It's not political at all, it's personal… It has been decided, my marriage to one of Arthur's men will serve to seal the alliance of Nemeth and Camelot."

If Ally had been a better rider, she might have reined her horse to a dead stop in shock. If she'd been a worse rider, she might have fallen off.

"Your – marriage?" she managed. "Arranged? To a – stranger?"

Something she herself had been mercifully spared, as her father would not have given her, with her magic to be discovered and exposed, to anyone. As isolated as her upbringing had been, she hadn't had friends to giggle over and discuss the delights of young gentlemen with – to miss as they married.

"It's quite common, after all, among those of our station," Mithian said with wry amusement for Ally's reaction.

"Yes, I know, but…" Ally didn't know whether _I'm sorry_ would be awkward or impolite.

"It's something I agreed to," Mithian said, looping her reins casually. "Months ago, when King Uther died, and my father and brothers were discussing changes in policy, Camelot's and ours. There's no one in Nemeth I think about more than another, no one I can't live without, or especially want to live with."

"Yes, but – a stranger?" Ally said, sensitive to the knights that rode several paces behind them. Escort and protection for the princess, both wore the characteristic veil of chainmail hanging from their helmets over their faces. Impossible to tell who was who or what they were thinking; they made Ally nervous. "What if he's old or ugly or fat or smelly or mean or miserly or indifferent or –"

Mithian laughed right out loud, and Ally swallowed the second half of her protest. If it was her, she'd worry that the stranger would find fault in her person or character or habits or desires or pass-times or –

"The choice is mine," the princess explained, in a tone meant to reassure Ally. "King Arthur has given us the names of noblemen and knights who are amenable to the match, and I will choose. I can even say, none of these, never mind. I just…" Mithian sighed. "I love Nemeth, its lands and its people, but – I was excited to come here and meet new people. New possibilities."

That, Ally understood completely, though her experience held much trepidation also.

"So you see," Mithian concluded, "it would benefit me greatly to know whether my listed possibilities accept or resist magic – it is the one topic upon which my opinion is likely to differ the most from a husband I choose in Camelot, and your cousin would be likelier to realize lingering prejudices than the king."

"Yes, I agree that –" A thought struck Ally. "Oh! that means you'd likely move to Camelot permanently!"  
"For a fact," Mithian said, smiling, "your court does seem to be lacking in ladies."

"We'll have a queen before long," Ally said. Even though she agreed, and Mithian had not intended the observation as a slight, she felt it incumbent on her to speak defensively. "Then she can invite and include whoever else she likes."

"Or whoever has the sense to like her?" Mithian said, with a sweet and canny lift of her brows. "Gwen, right? Arthur wouldn't say, without a betrothal, but the way he looks at her, and the way she says his name… I think she's very brave. I know what she's willing to take on, for his sake, maybe better than she does…"

They both watched Gwen's back as she rode ahead of them, unselfconsciously enjoying all the details of the outing – the woods and the weather and the ride.

"What I wouldn't give for a love like that," Mithian added wistfully.

"I hope you find it here," Ally said. "Here, or somewhere."

The princess hummed neutrally. "And you?"

"What about me?" Ally was surprised. "Who would marry me, especially now that my… magic… isn't secret any longer?"

"Sir Lancelot."

Ally stared at her friend, astonished – then found herself facing forward at the very moment Lancelot turned in his saddle to check on the three of them. He offered her a smile – personal, almost intimate, in spite of the presence of the two other girls – and she couldn't return it.

"What makes you think he…" Doesn't care about the magic at all. Was one of Merlin's first confidantes, understands and supports and applauds…

"The way he looks at you." Mithian smiled a different smile, a mischievous smile, and a dimple appeared. "And the way you say his name."

Dozens of memories washed through her mind. His arrival in Descalot, pale and bloody and half-conscious. The way she'd labored and hoped – and then he'd blinked up at her from the pillow, awake and alert, like she was an angel. His quietness, that she valued so much – in direct contrast to his companion, the likable rascal Sir Gwaine. The way he made her feel strong and confident and beautiful by the way he looked at her and spoke to her.

Was that love that she saw in him, that made him special to her? Warmth welled up in her, and her mouth wouldn't stop smiling, even as her eyes filled with tears at the sudden and exquisite pleasure.

 _I'm in love with him. And he might very well be in love with me._

"Only he's never said anything," she said aloud.

"Well then," Mithian said. "We'll have to see if we can't find a way to encourage him a little bit."

…..*….. …..*…. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The ruined castle, to Ally's eye, was a lot more ruin than castle.

Great chunks of stone had fallen from wall or tower, obscuring its original shape of structure, and littering the wide clearing Lancelot led them into – maybe once a courtyard. By Mithian's expression, she thought the same.

"Sir Lancelot," the princess called, interrupting his visual search of the area and catching his attention over his shoulder. His glance took in Ally as well, next to Mithian, as he raised his brows and smiled responsively. "You don't mean to say you spent the whole winter here with your companions?"

Gwen answered for him. "It was a lot longer than a single season, actually. About ten months altogether?"

"Yes, that's right." Lancelot dismounted, casting the reins of his horse to the ground to allow it to forage a bit; the mounts of Camelot's stable were too well-bred to wander far. Mithian swung down immediately and with ease, ignoring her two knights, and Gwen wasn't far behind her, but Lancelot came to help Ally descend from the saddle without tangling her skirt or tripping and falling.

She was aware of the rough skin of his knuckles, the veins on the backs of his hands as she covered them at her waist with her own. So strong, and so gentle. For a moment she dared to hold them in place atop her hips, enjoying the sensation - but released him before he could start to wonder.

He didn't move away from her, though he was half-turned to the two other girls, mostly focused on the princess. "Would you like to see inside, Your Highness? The main chambers are quite safe, and though I believe it lacks a quarter of an hour at least til noon, Merlin might be here already."

"Or not," Gwen said, stretching in a perfectly ladylike way. "Arthur said he was coming out here early, and he does often go looking around this part of the forest to supplement Gaius' supplies, or his own."

"I would like to see inside," Ally said, softly up to Lancelot.

His brown hair, longish and tending to curl at the end, was a bit windblown and she found herself fascinated. Wanting to touch and fix and straighten – what had gotten into her? – wanting to leave it exactly as it was.

"Then by all means," Mithian said, smiling at Ally as she gave her veiled knights a series of command-signals. They retreated with their mounts to the edge of their forest, present but not part of their group. "Lead the way, Sir Lancelot, and Lady Ally and I will follow along behind."

Lancelot glanced at Gwen, who held out her palms in emphatic refusal. "No, thank you, I've been in lots of times – I'm going to stay out here and enjoy the sun before it disappears for the winter."

"Call if you need anything," Lancelot told her, and she nodded.

"I'll keep an eye on our horses, too."

Lancelot offered his elbow to Ally, and she tucked her hand into the crook of it, enjoying as always this way of having a hold on him. He looked up toward the princess, and Ally knew without minding much that he'd offer the same courtesy to her as well. Mithian might have realized the same, for instead of waiting and accepting, she whirled and made for the doorway into the interior, leaving the two of them to follow as a couple.

Ally was a bit nervous, even with Lancelot's presence warm and strong at her side, but under the arch and into the passage – higher than she could reach, the walls just barely beyond touching both at once – it smelled faintly like horses, reminding her of the stable where she'd spent many serene hours of her childhood, and she immediately relaxed. Breaks in the shape of the passageway meant decent light, with the sun out of direct sight overhead, but Mithian had only gone a couple of paces before pausing to look through another opening that was the source of most of the light.

"This was your stable," the princess said, looking back at Lancelot.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Then Merlin is here, already." Mithian made a sound of approval, and turned further into the passageway.

Ally craned her neck to look – a good-sized side chamber, half-sheltered with the remains of the floor that used to be above it. A grey-speckled white mare that she recognized grazed placidly, minding their arrival not a bit.

She wanted to linger and study the space and imagine Lancelot and her cousin and the others inhabiting – saddling and riding out, though they took their lives in their hands every time. Returning weary and caring for their mounts first, in the heat of summer and the blizzards of winter, because they loved their young king enough to sacrifice themselves to serve him. She wondered if Arthur thought the same, saw the same, whenever he'd come here.

But Lancelot was leading – probably intent on remaining near Mithian for her own safety – and Ally passed the stable-chamber, through the corridor into a larger, dimmer one. One of the castle's main halls, she thought. The ceiling out of sight overhead, a chimney at the opposite end that took up the middle third of the entire wall, with a hearth that more than one person could sleep on comfortably.

And the table. Round and solid and heavy, the edges notched and the surface scarred, the chairs unmatched – some backless, some repaired.

"Merlin!" Lancelot shouted, upward.

There was no answer but a brief flutter as of the wings of birds nesting out of sight at the top edges of the hall. Maybe a cascade of pebbles dislodged in avian distress.

"He'll be here," Lancelot said apologetically. "I'm afraid… there isn't much to see."

"I don't agree," Mithian said inexplicably, drawing her fingers along the curve of the table as she strolled back toward them – though her gaze wandered the room rather than checking her fingertips for dust. "It's straightforward, but rich with significance…"

Ally agreed with her. She could see Lancelot and the others in this chamber also, crouched over a cookfire, gathered around the table to eat hearty and simple or maybe sometimes scant and cold, rolled in blankets and low discussion as the coals died. She didn't believe any one of them would have voiced doubts with their chosen lifestyle or proposed new starts elsewhere.

"What's this?" Mithian's steps quickened toward a shadow on the side wall that Ally belatedly identified as another arched doorway. "Stairs?"

"There are some smaller bedchambers up there, Highness," Lancelot said. "We never cleaned or fixed much except Merlin's room, but–"

"Merlin's room?" the princess said with interest, entering the doorway. Looking up and bracing her hands on the wall, she put her foot on the first step.

"Yes, but that's not exactly safe," Lancelot cautioned, following. Ally trailed behind them. "Half the stair is missing, you see, and –"

"And if you great fellows can tromp up and down for a year, it's not going to collapse under me." The amusement in Mithian's voice floated back to Ally.

The princess didn't stop, and Lancelot was going to hover over the royal guest, and Ally did not want to be left behind. If Mithian thought she was providing opportunity for Ally and Lancelot to be alone, she didn't know Lancelot well; Ally worried that the princess might hurt herself or get into some trouble in the ruin, on her own.

"Maybe we should just –" she began, thinking of the sunny clearing and Gwen and lunch, and if Merlin was already here, then –

But Mithian inhaled in a surprised way. "Oh."

And Ally was curious, too. Lancelot reached back for her hand, guiding her to the edge of the stair, and she joined him as Mithian moved into the chamber. Illuminated, as it turned out, by a single candle in the candelabra placed on the table that took up most of the middle of the room, probably left by Merlin, but it was still too dim to see details from the corridor.

"Books," Mithian said, touching the spines of several in a row on the shelf on one wall. "And – herbs." She sniffed at a shape on the far wall that reminded Ally of the drying-frame in the physician's chamber.

"He's Gaius' apprentice," Lancelot reminded the princess.

"I think he'll take Gaius' place on the council in half a dozen years or so," Ally commented.

Mithian turning toward her was a vague suggestive swirl of candle-lit gold sleeves. "Is that what he wants to do?"

"No," Ally and Lancelot said at the same time, and when he squeezed her hand to acknowledge that, she smiled at the warmth that bubbled up inside her. "Gaius is like the father he never had. Merlin would want him never to be too old for his position."

"Arthur listened to him when he was just a manservant," Lancelot added. "He doesn't need a seat at the council table for that."

Ally went to count the books – twenty-eight, but there were scrolls and tables also – as Mithian rounded the single chair, touching various parts of the herb-rack. "What about the rest of it?" she asked then, moving past Lancelot in the doorway. "Can you get to any other part of the castle from here?"

"Perhaps, Highness, but we never used –" Lancelot began.

Ally felt a bit shivery, and followed quickly, to keep near her knight. "Maybe we should go outside again," she suggested. "Gwen will wonder about us, and Merlin will come soon, and there's lunch –"

"This passage goes on," Mithian said. "If we could squeeze past this rock –" part of the wall, or ceiling? Ally wondered. "Look, there are candle drippings here. If you all didn't come this far…"

"This is fresh," Lancelot said, stepping forward to feel where she indicated. "Maybe Merlin –"

"Hello!" Mithian called forward, trying to wedge her slender body between the chunk of masonry and the intact wall. Ally looked up and thought, possibly a person could go over the rock – into the gap it left – and continue down the passage. The princess added with mild exasperation, "Oh, I think I've torn my dress."

Ally had an idea. "I know something that might help," she said, moving next to Lancelot to place her palm against the boulder-size impediment. " _Athwinan_ –

"I think I hear something," Mithian said.

"- _thas_ –"

"Hello?" the princess called again. And maybe Ally heard another voice respond, far away toward the interior of the ruin, but she continued anyway.

"- _heard_." The rock vanished, and Mithian stumbled a bit at her sudden freedom. For a moment, all was perfect, and Ally felt happy and satisfied.

Then an ominous rumble shifted the stone under her feet, and a great puff of sharp dust blinded her and knocked her into Lancelot.

Something else knocked Lancelot into her, and then she was falling.

All was noise, and darkness, and the earth trying to swallow her – pinched tight in an enormous mighty throat, she couldn't breathe and she couldn't scream but it seemed to her like someone was _roaring_ –

on and on and it wouldn't stop and –

For several disorienting moments she imagined that she'd fallen beneath a horse's hooves and the excited beast was kicking and trampling – she felt blows distantly, but there was no pain, only a dark dusty ache.

The unrelenting noise finally, reluctantly, retreated. Her ears rang, and the air was barely breathable – there was no room to cough, and all was black as a pit.

Or maybe she was blind. The thought induced more panic, and she tried to touch her eyes, tried to feel _where-am-I_.

Her hands were trapped. She coughed, and sobbed, and something – someone – moved against her.

Warm. Solid. Heavy.

"Ally? Ally!"

Lancelot's voice, and she gasped with the piercing pain of relief.

She wasn't quite prone; he wasn't quite behind her, but she squirmed and forced her hands to find him, climb his chainmail til at last her fingertips found skin at his collar.

His breath curled across the side of her face. His voice sounded naked, hoarse and desperate and the unfamiliarity of that scared her even as the fact that it was _his_ gave her a deeper sense of security. "Oh, _Ally_. Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know," she managed. "Not much?"

He tried to move; she felt one arm around her, his hand on her back, their legs entwined so it couldn't be told, where one ended and the other began. But it was an aborted attempt, as he grunted with pain – and panic threatened to flare in her chest again.

"You're hurt?" she said. "Lancelot?"

"Just… hit on the head," he answered. "What of… oh, _no_. The princess!"

Ally sucked in a shocked dusty breath – and as they both froze, she heard a voice. More than one? And words became clear.

"Are you all right? Sorry about –"

"No, never mind." Feminine, husky and breathless. "It's fine, you – saved my life."

"Just be still and I'll – sorry… No, you go first, so you don't have my boots in your face…"

"Merlin!" Lancelot said, and Ally's body shifted with the effort he put into raising his voice. Something in her back twinged; he swallowed a tight, miserable-sounding moan.

"Lancelot – are you two all right? Hold on, I'm –" Merlin spoke words Ally both recognized and didn't, and dust pattered in her face as stones clicked and ground together.

She gripped Lancelot, knowing because Merlin was there she was safe, but instinctively fearing another cave-in. She couldn't sense any other change, but Lancelot rolled away from her with another stifled groan, and the sounds of scraping and shuffling were nearer, unmuffled by rock.

"Lancelot?" Mithian's voice said. "Ally?"

"Yes, we're –"

"Is there anyone else?" Merlin – on Lancelot's other side, Ally guessed - interrupted rudely, but there was a strain in his voice that excused it. "Lancelot. Anyone else? Only you three?"

"Gwen was outside. And two knights of –"

" _No one else_ in here?" Merlin demanded. Shuffling continued, and a couple of grunts of exertion. Ally could hear Mithian's panting breathing, too.

"No."

"Okay, don't…" Merlin's audible magic shifted rock again. Grinding, groaning – pebbles fell on Ally's skirt just next to her leg, and she flinched closer to Lancelot again.

Merlin gasped – growled – a shaft of sunlight pierced their tomb in the further-collapsed ruins so suddenly Ally's eyes stung, watered, blinked.

"Now, go. _Go_. If you can, and… hurry…"

Merlin was crouched just near Lancelot's head – blood and dust on her knight's face as he looked up toward the sorcerer – one knee down, both hands up and fingers spread as if he was trying to lift an impossible weight. His face was twisted into stark lines and planes, gray with shadow or dust.

Rough, jagged rock, only _inches_ above them – and how much above that? _Quivering_ , as Merlin's hands and fingers trembled.

Ally scrambled sideways – elbow, then knee – seeing the light figure of Mithian doing the same on Merlin's other side, close enough to touch. Lancelot was on his belly, rising to hands and knees – freeing one hand to guide-coax-encourage Ally.

Mithian said, hesitating, "But what about –"

"In a minute," Merlin ground out. "Last. _Go_ , for the… love of…"

Ally's fingernails flared and ached, as she clawed her way into the shaft of sunlight. Through its agitated swirl of motes – Mithian touched her shoulder like an older sister helping a younger – and they almost pitched together down the broken stair.

"You go." Her voice trembled.

Probably Mithian guessed that she wanted to wait for Lancelot, needed to wait for him; the princess began to slide down the stairs on hands and rear, clinging to the wall.

Ally's neck clicked and stuck as she tried to look behind – Merlin's back bent, bowed, arched so slowly it was excruciating to watch. Lancelot crawled past him carefully – dark eyes enveloping Ally, then glancing back to Merlin. Through the sunlight her knight came to safety, and she stretched to take his hand, to pull him with her, after her down the stairs. Merlin rose slowly, hunched under his invisible burden, and began to shuffle back toward them.

Voices, again. More voices.

"Oh my goodness!" Gwen. "What _happened_? We heard this awful rumble – I thought of _thunder_ – are you hurt? Where are –"

Overtaken by other, lower, hurried male voices. That would be Mithian's pair of guards, Ally thought, reaching the bottom of the stair and finding that her legs were too wobbly to hold her. Lancelot stepped down, trying to lift her – lurched and had to steady himself with one hand against the wall.

Gwen suddenly appeared to help him, bending to take one of Ally's arms with both hands. "Are you both okay? Lancelot, there's blood on your –"

Lancelot ignored it, one arm around Ally's back beneath hers, sliding them both along the rough stone wall, out into the main hall where the outlaws had lived. He said to Gwen, "Merlin's still –"

She followed his upward gesture, and made to take the first step.

"Guine _vere_." Out of sight at the top of the stair, Merlin spoke her name the way Arthur sometimes scolded her, but so sharply even Ally's nerves flinched. "Get out. Everyone. Now."

More rumbling.

 **A/N: Ally's pov will continue in the next chapter. Almost finished, so it should only be a couple of days til it's up…**


	3. Ally (2)

**Chapter 3: Ally** (part 2)

" _Get out. Everyone. Now."_

 _More rumbling._

Ally looked up to see the two veiled knights manhandling a reluctant Mithian out the doorway to the corridor that passed the stable-chamber; the princess cast a glance of urgent entreaty over her shoulder. And then Gwen was at Ally's other side, her warm vitality making it possible for Ally's legs to obey, though stiffly and stumbling. Her fingers were cold and numb and she had to resist a ridiculous urge to _giggle_ , of all things, and there was _blood on Lancelot's face._

Because she stopped dead and turned to examine him fearfully – the chamber lit by sunlight reaching through a new crack somewhere high – all three of them were drawn to turn as Merlin stepped out of the other doorway.

Arms still spread. Every muscle taut – some drawn, some bunched – under the dirty-fine dark trousers and dusty forget-me-not blue shirt. He spoke spell-words again – hadn't enough breath – gasped and staggered back as the upper wall bulged… then exploded outward.

Ally clutched Lancelot, petrified. Great chunks of broken masonry tipped – crash-landed – cracked and tumbled.

Obscured the hearth.

Smashed the great round table to a crazily-canted position. Then chipped a great crescent out of the upward curve.

Merlin's table fell to kindling. Herbs and book-pages fluttered in the dust, in the settling sunlight.

Ruined. The ruins were ruined.

Ally couldn't breathe. Tears struggled to leave her eyes, descend her cheeks, as she watched Merlin's back and he stared at what remained of the hall.

But when he turned, in delayed degrees, she realized that it wasn't loss or disappointment on his dust-streaked face, but intent concern that the collapse was finished. Concern for them and their safety. And then she was blind with tears, and choked with weeping.

"Ally, are you hurt?" Gwen.

"What's wrong? Was she hit? I tried to –" Merlin.

Lancelot's breath warmed and filled her ear, spilled down her neck. "Ally?"

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Merlin, it was my fault, I tried to clear our way with the spell, we wanted to explore and see if you were –"

"Peace, cousin." Lancelot's hand cupped her elbow supportively, his other passed around the back of her waist, but Merlin's long arms wrapped her shoulders, gathering her in. "You're forgiven. But it's not your fault."

She couldn't stop crying, shaking his body at the same time. Someone stroked the tangles of her hair.

Lancelot said, "The egg?"

"Indestructible. I can find it anytime, don't worry about that. But there's blood on your –"

"Ally first. And then –"

"Just take her outside. I hope it's mostly shock. Maybe bruising, I couldn't… hold it all back."

If her feet touched the ground, she didn't notice. The bright, clear air overwhelmed and confused her, and she closed her eyes and turned in to Lancelot, refusing to let him go even as Merlin spoke lightly and calmly above her, and Gwen answered. Someone wiped a cool damp cloth over her face, and she was suddenly, inexplicably sleepy.

"Drink this."

Lancelot's instruction, so she obeyed. Two swallows of water, then three. From a skin, which had hung on someone's saddle, on the ride to… the picnic.

She blinked two last tears, and worry on Merlin's face cleared to an almost-grin. "Feel better?"

Instead of answering, she shifted to find herself curled on the ground between Lancelot's knees, supported by his arm as he knelt over her. She struggled to sit up on her own, to find an angle where she could see behind the ear on the left side of his head, where blood smeared the lobe and the side of his jaw, down his neck.

"Just bruises," she managed, in response to his worried frown. "Unless I'm bleeding somewhere?"

"You're not," Merlin reassured her. Lancelot cast him an unhappy frown, and her cousin addressed him as he reached to brush his fingers over her temple; she startled a bit at the touch. "This is yours."

At that, Ally squirmed around, away from her knight, and he allowed it. Merlin shuffled his crouch to face Lancelot, putting one knee down for stability as he refolded a cloth in his hand and reached for the water-skin to wet it again.

Lancelot obligingly tilted his head, granite-faced and not meeting Ally's eyes as Merlin's fingers lifted chainmail away from the side of his neck to begin sponging blood from his skin. Ally cringed and grimaced, clutching one of his hands in both of her own to convey encouragement and support. Nowhere near as bad as the arrow in his leg, she told herself, and couldn't bear to think of him so still and cool and pale in the bed of the guest chamber in Descalot.

As he still wasn't letting her see into his eyes, she looked past him – lifted her heels to prop herself higher, and looked between him and Merlin. They weren't far from the ruins. Which might appear slightly altered in the silhouette of the whole, but she ignored details.

Gwen and Mithian were seated side-by-side on a low, roughly-rectangular stone block, fallen and rolled – not today, though, by the rain-washed mossy surfaces, and grass growing around its sides. Mithian, the delicate gold sleeves of her dress ripped to her skin and dust showing in great smears on the butternut skirt – her neck bare of her gold-feather ornament – was watching Merlin tend Lancelot with an oddly intent detachment, but Gwen met Ally's gaze with a tremulous smile and nod. She was holding the princess' hand – or Mithian was holding her hand, maybe – while one of the guard-knights of Nemeth stood sentinel at Mithian's elbow, watching his lady closely. The other was behind Gwen, hands on his hips and facing the ruins as if unconvinced the rest wouldn't try to topple over on them.

"I'm sorry," Ally whispered. And in the grim stillness of sunlight and bird-call around the clearing, seemed to draw the attention of everyone but Mithian's knights. "It was that spell. I vanished the rock that was in our way, and I didn't know - I didn't think…"

"Ally," Merlin said, laying the cloth aside with his eyes still focused on the back of Lancelot's head, low to his neck. "It's all right. It was an accident, no one blames you."

"Yes, but you always say, be careful, and think about the consequences. Think _twice_ ," she emphasized his repeated instructions, privately resolving to make it thrice, hereafter.

"If I told you," Merlin said – slowly and absently, as he began to probe the area of the wound, and Lancelot flinched and closed his eyes, and Ally cringed internally again – "all of the times I wasn't careful… with magic or without… we'd be here til sunset."

He flashed her a wry-tired grin, and she sighed to believe her tutor and her cousin wasn't angry. But the next moment he looked at Lancelot, taking her knight by the wrist and beginning to lift his arm like he was _still_ testing and diagnosing – and that worried her again. She wanted to get up and go behind them to see for herself, but didn't quite trust her legs yet.

"Does it hurt when you move this arm?" Merlin said to Lancelot.

"Mm. Not really, maybe a little," Lancelot answered quietly. Strain sounding through his habitual calm. "Mostly it just feels… too heavy to move. And numb."

Merlin lifted Lancelot's arm til his hand was above his head. "Keep this here when I let go," he instructed.

But when his hand left Lancelot's wrist, agony flashed across her knight's features, and his elbow buckled, pulling the hand down.

"Merlin?" Gwen said.

He shook his head, hand light on Lancelot's shoulder as he faced the other two girls. "It's almost stopped bleeding, this cut," he said to them. "But I'm afraid it's deeper than it looks – no, Ally, don't try to get up – and there's bruising, and it's so close to the bones of his spine."

"Gaius will be able to help," Ally said. Her mouth felt dry, but the thought of swallowing water made her stomach lurch. She repeated, to reassure herself as much as Lancelot, "Gaius will –"

Merlin looked back at her, and her heart dropped because… there wasn't certainty in his expression. His lips were pressed, his brows making a fine wrinkle between them, and his eyes. Her cousin could say more in one look than twenty of his rambling sentences, and what he was saying, with the dirt-smears on his skin and sweat-spiked curls turning the wrong way from his forehead, scared her.

"Use magic," she blurted. "It's allowed now. You're allowed now. Please?"

Merlin's lips thinned even more, briefly, as he considered Lancelot's wound. "Gaius' magic was never strong, and he's used it a handful of times in twenty-five years – he's only just now teaching me healing magic, and… Ally, I'm as much a beginner as you, in that. Probably far less talented, too."

"You're supposed to be very powerful," Mithian spoke up. Expressionless, like maybe she was nearly as rattled as Ally by their experience, but better trained and practiced at self-control.

"It's not a question of power," Merlin answered. "More, ability. Knowing what to do, and how to do it."

Mithian scooted forward a few inches on the stone, letting go of Gwen's hand to lean over her knees. "Try, _Wel cene hole_ ," she said, and Ally was surprised to understand the words; it meant she was learning, after all. "Your desire to help your friend should be enough to direct the result."

Merlin's eyebrows were up when he turned back, but he didn't question her advice. Only spread his fingers and palm a few inches from the back of Lancelot's head and neck, taking a moment to center himself. Ally, watching both men, saw that their eyes closed at the same moment – but Merlin's opened two heartbeats later, and flared that fascinating gold as he spoke the healing spell.

Slowly. Shifted his hand incrementally, and repeated it. Examined his work critically, as Ally's heart climbed further into her throat with every pulse.

" _Wel cene hole_ ," Merlin said again – sweetly and coaxingly.

And then smiled.

Ally collapsed into an unintentional lethargy of relief as the tension and energy worry had lent left her. Lancelot inhaled deeply as if testing the stretch of his skin, and smiled before opening his eyes. She wanted to fling herself into the circle of his arms, but settled for hugging his hand instead.

"Thank you," Lancelot told Merlin softly.

Merlin retrieved the water-skin and cloth, but made no move to rise. "Where did you learn that?" he said to Mithian, sounding tired. "Do you have magic?"

"No, but… The study of magic is allowed, where I come from," she answered.

"Really," Merlin said, but his voice lacked the energy to make it a question. "I'm sorry, I…" He shook his head like trying to clear it, rubbed at the corner of his eye with the base of his thumb. "Should have asked you sooner – are _you_ all right?"

Mithian's nod dropped her gaze and her chin, so the braids holding back the disheveled ringlets of the rest of her deep-brown hair fell over her shoulders. But Gwen said determinedly, "You were limping. You said your leg hurt?"

"Just a scrape," Mithian protested.

Merlin shuffled forward. "I can have a look at it, if you like? Use that spell again, if you want me to?"

The princess lifted just her eyes, and Ally – her hand still securely in Lancelot's as they rested and breathed together – wondered to see her cousin's cheeks so pink.

"Or you may prefer to wait for Gaius…"

The knight who'd guarded against further collapse swung around with a scowl, and the other at Mithian's elbow began to object, "Your father –"

"Gather the horses, please," Mithian said, an unmistakable order that would brook no argument or delay.

The knights exchanged glances and moved away; Ally read reluctance in their bearing and movement, that she couldn't see in their chainmail-covered faces. Of course Merlin would _never_ … but they didn't know that.

"I'll go find our mounts – and talk to them," Lancelot offered, and left her with a whispered, "Just rest."

He walked without so much as a waver; satisfied, Ally turned to watch Mithian lift the ripped, stained skirt of her once gorgeous dress, then the underskirt out of the way to reveal a pair of low black riding boots, now well-scuffed. The side of her stocking was marred by dirt and torn to show blood - that might not end at the top of her boot.

"I'm sorry," Merlin told her, reaching to ease her boot off her foot – the casual treatment of the intimate liberty reminding Ally that he used to be a manservant. Mithian only leaned back on her hands, brows lifted in watchful surprise. "I'm afraid my protection in that tunnel was late and incomplete… It doesn't look too bad, but it's hard to see with this still on?" He looked up expectantly, and Gwen scooted from the stone to a crouch next to Mithian.

"I'll help you," she said, reaching up under Mithian's skirt, to the top of the stocking, above the knee – of course, she had been a maidservant. Mithian winced – Gwen winced in sympathy – Merlin looked away, and the stocking was down to her ankle.

"Better take it off," Merlin advised. "You're probably not going to want to put it back on – unless you want me to try healing it?"

Mithian tipped her head slightly, studying him. "No, you don't have to."

"All right." Absently he pushed the material of her skirt higher, out of his way, his other hand already finding a clean section of the wet cloth.

Efficiently and gently he cleaned. Ally had seen him perform similar tasks half a dozen times, as Gaius' assistant; it was her opinion that he was going to be just as good a court physician as the old man, if not better. Eventually.

"No, it's not deep," he finally concluded. "Still bleeding a little, though, and Gaius has a solution he brews that does a better job cleaning and preventing infection than just water – I'll see to it that you have some when we… Oh, are you heading to Camelot?"

"Yes," Mithian said.

Gwen met Ally's eyes and her mouth twitched in a smile – belatedly Ally realized, they'd never actually introduced the two, and Merlin seemed to have forgotten the identity of the members of their planned party, if he'd ever been told exactly who he was supposed to meet.

"Okay, good. I'm just going to rip you a bandage from this ruffle, may I?"

"Oh no don't, use my –" Gwen began, her mirth dismayed, but it was too late.

Ally didn't know whether to laugh or sigh, watching her cousin separate the ruffle from the princess' underskirt. He folded it lengthwise with a deft flip, and began to wind it around Mithian's leg. Lancelot and the other two knights approached with the horses, as Merlin finished the bandage and tucked in the edges.

"Want to wear the boot?" he said. "You haven't injured the ankle at all?"

"Yes," she said. "And no. Thank you."

Merlin seemed only then to realize the presence of their mounts, twisting round to squint up at them even as his fingers fit the boot over Mithian's bare foot, easing it up over the bottom edge of the bandage.

"What about eating?" he asked – not as if he had presumed the picnic would carry on and he was surprised at the change of plans, but as if he meant to address the concern of their possible hunger, and sustenance.

Mithian huffed what Ally thought was an involuntary chuckle, very nearly a hysterical giggle, and gave Gwen a helpless shrug and a grimace of an apology. "We can have something after we return to the city?"

"Yes?" Gwen said, in the same quizzical way.

Lancelot reached down to help Ally rise; one of the knights was doing the same for Mithian.

"Your Highness," the stranger said, with frigid gravity behind his metal veil. "Allow me to assist you to your seat."

"Thank you," Mithian said, with a little smile, but her eyes were still on Merlin.

Who rose as she turned away to be lifted to her saddle between the two stranger-knights. Gwen stood also, a sympathetic-worried smile on her own face as she followed Merlin's pair of stumbled steps backward, stopped only by Lancelot's hand between his shoulder-blades.

"Highness," Merlin whispered dazedly to the three of them, more shocked now than he had been throughout the danger and recovery of the cave-in. "She's – that's –"

"Princess Mithian of Nemeth," Gwen said softly.

Merlin groaned, tipping his chin up slightly and closing his eyes. "Why didn't you – tell me, stop me?"

"I think you did fine," Gwen declared stoutly. Ally was sure she was wrong about the twinkle in her friend's dark eyes.

"Her father's going to want my head." Merlin looked at Gwen, turned past Ally to seek Lancelot's eyes. "Her father's going to ask Arthur for my head – and he might give it, if I've mucked up his treaty."

"Why?" Lancelot said blankly.

"No, he won't," Gwen said, more decisively, though Ally didn't know if she meant, King Arthur or King Rodor. "Even if there's bound to be more questions, the way you all look, she's nice, she won't complain about you saving her."

"Yes, but I…" Merlin swallowed, still holding Lancelot's gaze, as if pleading for understanding. "I _touched_ her. When the corridor collapsed, I was… I was _on top of_ her."

Lancelot looked down as if to hide a small involuntary smile, and a sensation of warmth chased a shiver down Ally's limbs to recall their own situation.

She said, "I'm sure Mithian preferred _you_ , to a ton of rock."

"There you see?" Gwen said diplomatically, taking her reins from Lancelot's hand and turning to mount.

"Are you all right to ride back?" Lancelot asked Merlin, who shrugged glumly.

"I've got to saddle my mare. Our stable is fine, but she's probably thoroughly spooked. I should see if I can't find my jacket… Arthur said stocks if I managed to ruin another one… I'll be fine by the time I get back to Camelot, but after that…" He turned to Ally. "Are _you_ all right to ride back?"

"I'll see to it," Lancelot promised.

Ally tried to smile and nod. Her hands were still shaking and her knees were still trembling, and she couldn't seem to make them stop, even though the danger was obviously past. Merlin shifted to move away, and as Lancelot turned to her, she stepped right up against him, clinging to the impersonal chainmail and wishing he wasn't wearing it.

He wound one arm around her waist and cupped her face in the other, cradling her close to murmur against her temple. "Oh, Ally."

There was no logical reason for it, but she found tears springing to her eyes again. "Lancelot. I thought – I thought… Please don't ever leave me. Not ever again."

"I promise," he said, gently disengaging from her and warming her with the smile in his dark eyes. "But I see only one way I can honorably keep that vow."

Tangling the remaining reins with her fingers, he slid to one knee at her feet. Which was disconcertingly _all wrong_. She should never look down to her knight, always up, she should not be the one in the position of _authority_.

"Marry me. Lady Alayna of Descalot, I would protect and love you, the rest of my life. However long I have, I want to give to you and spend with you."

Ally gaped, speechless.

She must have hit her head, too. She was hallucinating, hearing things –

A slight frown marred his perfect features, and he prompted, a little worriedly, "Marry me?"

"Oh," she said. "Are you sure? I mean, me? Are you – you're asking –"

Merlin – _hadn't he walked away? guess not_ – murmured, "Stand up, Lancelot."

Her knight rose, and the equilibrium of her world righted. She leaned against him and felt the supporting circle of his arms around her back – safe, secure, no gaps in his warmth or devotion. He didn't look away from her, and she inhaled, a little panicky to suddenly contemplate _marriage_ –

But Lancelot. Then would be _hers_.

"Are you sure?" she said again.

Someone called lightly, "Say yes, Lady Ally!" and it wasn't Gwen or Merlin.

"Never more certain in my life," Lancelot assured her, and so she knew it was true, but –

"Forever?" she ventured tentatively.

He pulled her close, leaning his cheek on her hair. "Or longer, if we can manage?"

She tipped her head up to see him again, but he was _close_ , and already bending further still, and –

His lips. Those perfect, full, fascinating lips, that she couldn't help watching, sometimes, when he spoke. Were on hers.

What were her lips like? she wondered wildly, and couldn't answer. Had she ever paid particular attention when looking at herself in a mirror? Today, of course, _now_ , she was a mess…

She didn't know what to do. But he didn't retreat, and his breath and the soft coaxing movement sent waves of relaxing warmth through her, and – she liked this, and – rose on tiptoes, lifting her arms around his neck, and –

Belatedly remembered their company.

She gasped into his mouth – he might've loosed the faintest groan – before they pulled back.

The heat in her face was nigh unbearable, to think that everyone had just _seen_. But his eyes were on her mouth and there was something in his expression that she'd never seen there before. That she'd put there, and so it was hers.

"Yes," she said, and cleared her throat. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, before it cleared into a quiet, steady sort of joy. "Yes, I will."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Three days later, when Ally stood with her knight at the bottom of the main courtyard stair for Nemeth's farewell, her legs still felt unsteady. Though this time, it was because the rest of her felt like she should float up in the air with the buoyant quality of her happiness.

Both her hands at Lancelot's elbow, because one could not wrap all the way around his upper arm, and he was hers to hold, now. He wasn't wearing chainmail, today, but a charcoal-velvet jacket that made him look like a lord's son.

And a smile, twice as often as before. Even when he wasn't looking at her.

"You're going to miss her?" he said softly.

Ally took her eyes from the scene everyone else was watching – the kings' leisurely leave-taking, while the princess to whom everyone could say honestly, _come again anytime_ , was measuring length and breadth of the entire stair, saying personal goodbyes to over half the people assembled.

"Yes," she said honestly.

Because after the accident at the ruins, Ally had slept the afternoon away with the help of one of Gaius' potions, suggested by Gwen and administered by Merlin, who looked in need of one himself, returning almost an hour after the rest of the party. And afterwards, had kept close to her chamber, as shaky as she felt.

And because she had lots of time to spend with her newly-betrothed. She experienced fits of euphoric happiness followed by sharply-tangled questions of what-about-her-father. Lancelot promised it would be fine, but she sensed he wasn't sure, and had to hope that Arthur could settle things for both of them, as her knight also claimed.

There was still the insidious heavy dread that it was a mistake somehow that would have to be corrected, that it was a dream that wouldn't last. This morning, though, she found reason to hope that time and the love and presence of her knight would soothe that irrationality away with proof to the contrary.

Mithian spoke to the maid who'd been assigned to her for the duration of their stay, and squeezed her hand; Ally felt a twinge of guilt that she didn't even know the girl's name.

"They have been busy these last couple of days," Lancelot commented, without undue curiosity.

Because Mithian and her father and Arthur also had a marriage – or at least a betrothal – to decide upon.

Ally said, "Of course she'll be back…"

"Oh, are they coming to see the dragon hatched in the spring?" he said, looking back toward Rodor, a distinguished man with white hair and a face lined from years of ruling.

"Probably," Ally said vaguely. Because it wasn't common knowledge yet, that the princess might marry into Camelot.

She tried to decide whether the princess was spending more time saying farewell to any one of the young knights or lords than the others. She wasn't privy to Mithian's list, of course. Was Gwen, though?

Ally craned her neck to find her first and best girl friend, wondering if Arthur had confided in her, discussed with her. Gwen had mentioned yesterday in passing when she'd come to check on Ally's recovery, that Mithian had asked after the characters and attributes of several young men, since Gwen as a former servant might have different views and opinions than Mithian as a princess could form through observation. Ally was a relative newcomer, and her magic kept her less than social – which she was comfortable with, but it meant she'd have nothing to offer Mithian on the topic of her suitors, if she wasn't going to pass along Merlin's opinion on their attitudes about magic.

Gwen was standing with Gaius, and Merlin behind them, near the top of the stairs. Gaius' attention was focused on the two kings conversing at front and center, while Gwen was turned away from Ally's position, presumably watching Mithian also, now on the far side of the step and hidden by its curve.

A young boy appeared at the top of the stair, tumbling without hesitation for the ceremonial gathering down to Merlin, a boy with a fluff of fuzzy brown hair on the top of his head. Merlin bent to listen; Tobe clung to his sleeve to pass his message in confidence.

 _Uh oh_ , Ally thought.

Merlin nodded to Tobe, and leaned to speak surreptitiously to Gaius – who also nodded, and Merlin turned to ascend the stairs two at a time, following Tobe darting on ahead.

Nothing too important, Ally decided, or Gaius himself would have been sent for… or maybe it was the _other_ sort of importance, for Merlin to go…

Either way, it was too bad he had to leave early. Ally watched Mithian arrive before Gaius and Gwen; she seemed to hesitate fractionally. Then the physician bowed, and the princess interrupted Gwen's curtsy to embrace her. When Mithian turned, she seemed to search the stair – then headed right for Ally and Lancelot, across and down.

"Highness." Lancelot bowed away from Ally's hand. "It was good to have you and your father here in Camelot. I hope you've enjoyed your visit."

"Oh, more than you know." Mithian smiled; Ally hoped, but didn't dare – and so she was gripping the sides of her skirt and dropping her eyes when the princess of Nemeth slipped arms around her shoulders to interrupt her curtsy. "Thank you for everything!" she whispered in Ally's ear.

"Thank you for coming," Ally contradicted honestly. "I hope you have a safe trip home, and…" She tried to think of something to say about the new baby – niece or nephew? which brother's child? and there was another one expected, wasn't there? – but her attention was caught by Mithian's necklace. Three golden wings laid end to end and fastened round her neck on the chain. "Your necklace! But I thought you'd lost it –"

"In the ruin, I know. I did." Mithian touched it, smiling happily. "It was my mother's – the pieces represent me and my two brothers. Merlin brought it back, that afternoon."

"He found it in the rubble?" Lancelot asked, with the barest touch of incredulity.

"Somehow. And then he said, he was at my disposal and my father's, for the remainder of our visit." Ally gasped, and Mithian rolled her eyes demonstratively, and Lancelot didn't understand.

"Why… is that unusual, Highness?"

"He was offering himself for any punishment we saw fit, because of what happened at the ruin." Mithian shook her head, her high cheekbones stained faintly pink. "Silly, really."

Ally saw on Lancelot's face that he might not take the word the way the princess meant. "Merlin is often, silly like that," she said softly.

"Mithian!" The princess turned, and the three of them saw King Rodor step away from Arthur, down to the courtyard where the veiled knights and the horses waited. Her father beckoned Mithian.

"Only, tell him I very much missed saying goodbye, and that I very much look forward to meeting again, here or in Nemeth, he's welcome to visit anytime, and…"

" _Mithian_!"

"Yes, that's all." The princess appeared flustered – spun away – turned back and offered a last smile, then flew down the rest of the steps in a flurry of white-lacy skirts.

The party of Nemeth mounted – the kings raised their hands in a last salute to a new ally – the horses were turned and clip-clopped through the barbicon.

Those left behind began to shift and murmur, and when Arthur turned to ascend the stairs, speaking to Leon with Orryn a respectful step behind, most moved away to resume regular duties.

Beside Ally, Lancelot sighed. "Well, my lady, now things can begin to return to normal."

"No," she said. There were letters to be written to her father, decisions and plans to be made, friends to tell and gossip with. She gave Lancelot all her happiness and excitement in a smile. "Things will never be normal again!"

 **A/N: End of part the first. I hope the disconnect between the end of one part and the beginning of the next will be slight, and not confusing. A bit of time passing, but not much.**


	4. Percival

**Part II: Percival and Sarra**

 **Chapter 4: Percival**

Percival was not a complicated man. He was a very simple man, with simple needs and desires, and simple joys.

For instance, the nighttime. The cool fresh breeze – chill now, this far toward winter. Sky darkening with twilight early enough to give them a couple of hours lounging around their campfires – three total, to accommodate all fifteen of the king's attendant knights – before tucking into bedrolls and dropping off to sleep. There was also, maybe a star or two already out, but hidden behind the thick leaves of stubborn oaks and the spiky fingers of the dramatic maples, going from gorgeous to bare in a fortnight of windy autumn days.

He rather enjoyed being sore – tired from the day's ride, with his belly full and the expectation of good rest, still on Camelot's side of the border. Crouched next to the fire to stir the ashes a bit before adding more wood, he also liked the heat on his face that felt as orange as it looked on his hands.

And the company, of course. One reason Percival understood Gwaine's trips to the tavern. It was easier to hold involuntary recollection of the tragic past at bay when one wasn't alone, but actively making more and better memories.

Percival glanced past sparks and through fire-haze and amended, nearly alone. The king had been preoccupied, this trip more than any other Percival had ever accompanied him on. Silent, still lost in his thoughts, seated on a log across from him. Uneasy ones, if Percival was any judge; it wasn't his place to ask.

Leon might've, but he'd remained in Camelot as acting regent, and Lancelot with him to learn what he needed to know about governing a castle and town. Percival smiled to himself, relaxing back, his elbow propped on another fallen log that helped to form their camp-circle. He was very glad for his good friend; Lancelot had carried a certain melancholy that deepened or sharpened, sometimes, to see Guinevere, last year. Percival understood that, without having to be told the whole history, though it was not an emotion he'd ever experienced before. It bothered him a bit, the thought that love might just happen to a man, without his choice, whether the lady in question was a good match, or not.

Merlin also might have questioned Arthur on his thoughts. But he and Gwaine were out of sight, ostensibly gathering firewood. And anyway Merlin had been lost in his own thoughts all day, too; it made Percival a little nervous, remembering the days Merlin had spent locked in his cousin's web-spell.

A pair of boots strode authoritatively behind Percival and stopped next to his right elbow. He startled, looking up as if one of the senior knights might have cause to reprimand him for duties neglected.

It was Sir Bors, glancing down at him expressionlessly, before focusing on Arthur, and Percival relaxed again. He liked Bors; the man wasn't friendly, but unemotional and fair. Taciturn, an attribute sometimes valued in a senior knight, but…

Arthur stared into the fire, slowly twisting his silver ring around his left forefinger, giving no sign he'd noticed the senior knight's presence. Bors exchanged another glance with Percival, acknowledging the king's mood, then stepped over the log to straddle it, just beyond Arthur's arms'-reach.

"Sire," he said.

Arthur grunted at least partial attention, permission for the knight to speak. Percival thought briefly of excusing himself, but Bors hadn't ordered him off, by word or look – and might actually prefer him to remain, as… some sort of tacit support.

"The men have noticed…" Bors began again, "We've noticed. Your preoccupation, my lord. And I would hesitate to interrupt you in your thoughts, except… well, if your worries touch on our safety in Mercia, we'd perform our duties more… efficiently, with what information you have."

Arthur stared at Bors blankly for a moment, then his mask cracked momentarily into wry amusement. "No, it's not Mercia I'm worried about, not yet anyway. Nor Alined. It's…"

He paused, and though Bors seemed relieved, he didn't excuse himself to leave again, either. "You'll forgive my observation, sire, but if you're distracted by issues best left behind, while you meet with these kings… you might not like the treaties you return to Camelot with, once your head clears."

Arthur grunted again, scooping up a twig from beneath one of his boots. "What do you suggest, then?"

"Talk to Merlin," Bors said bluntly. He was one, Percival had learned, who recognized the worth of Merlin's service and position as Arthur's unofficial councilor, and encouraged rather than begrudging the relationship.

The twig snapped.

"Merlin _is_ the issue," the king informed them. Percival pushed straight; he couldn't see Bors' expression, but Arthur evidently didn't like what he saw, turning to visually scour their surroundings. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Gathering firewood with Gwaine, my lord," Percival answered quietly.

Arthur loosed a hard, irritated sigh, flinging the broken twig into the fire. "Then Gwaine will know. And then, everyone will know."

"Sire…" Percival hesitated, but couldn't not defend his friend. "Gwaine would never reveal your confidences, or your secrets."

"Yes, I know," Arthur said impatiently. "But this isn't my secret – it's Merlin's."

"He has many of those," Bors remarked. "Perhaps it's best to –"

"No, you don't understand," Arthur said. "It's… it's too ridiculous, is what it is. You'd think by now I'd trust his loyalty implicitly, but…"

"There is no one more loyal to you than Merlin," Percival protested softly, still a bit confused. What had happened to make Arthur doubt their young friend?

"But," Arthur continued, as if Percival had never spoken, "what if he _marries_?"

"Merlin wouldn't marry," Percival said, after a moment. Still confused. "He doesn't look at the girls, doesn't encourage or seek any kind of female attention…" Except the cook, possibly, but Percival was sure that didn't count.

"Maybe he should," Bors said bluntly.

Arthur and Percival both stared at the older knight. The idea was so odd; Merlin was very focused, and busy, he had multiple priorities and scant time to attend to them all, and Bors thought he should add a _wife_ to the list?

"Why," Arthur said, with a dangerous quiet edge to his voice – that didn't seem to disturb Bors in the slightest.

"Because. Unmarried, he causes certain… questions, among the townspeople and servants, some among the knights and nobles, also. Questions that might be laid to rest if he were to have a wife, and begin to raise a family. He's young yet, there's no rush – but there are folks who'd breathe a little easier to see another level of normalcy to our sorcerer – that's _not_ with their young daughters, who find him attractive."

"There are girls who find Merlin attractive?" Arthur said incredulously.

Percival raised his brows when the king looked at him, as if for corroboration of Bors' absurd assertion – why should Arthur be surprised by that?

"Perhaps when you look at him, you still see the scrawny mouthy peasant he was when he first came," Bors said. "But he hasn't been that for quite some time. Has… he indicated a desire to marry?"

Merlin hadn't said anything to him. Nor yet to Gwaine, as far as Percival was aware – though if he'd like to avoid all the good-natured but ribald teasing sure to come his way, Gwaine would be the last to know if Merlin fancied a girl enough to consider a proposal.

"Quite the opposite," Arthur said. "That's part of the problem. He's convinced he will never love a- a woman."

Percival suspicioned Arthur had been about to say _another_. Which meant, Merlin had loved someone once…

"I'm afraid I don't follow, sire," Bors said.

"Nemeth," Arthur said. "You're aware they want to to seal our alliance with a royal marriage. And we accepted the offer, with several suggestions for a husband, the princess' choice." Bors nodded; Arthur glanced at Percival to include him, and didn't hesitate or indicate he should be elsewhere. "Well, when the party departed, they left me with a counter-proposal. If there were no objections, the princess thinks she'd prefer Merlin to all other candidates."

Bors sat back on the log, hands gripping his knees. Percival looked into the heart of the fire, calling the princess' image to mind. She was graceful and intelligent and attractive, seemed compassionate also – he'd seen her several times in company with Gwen and Lady Ally, seeming to be enjoying herself, and that was revealing, also. But for Merlin? He spent so much time trying to meet the needs of those around him, Percival would hate to see him with a woman who presumed on his generosity, and demanded more.

"Is it political, do you think, my lord," Bors said.

Percival blinked. _What_?

"I don't know," Arthur said between clenched teeth; evidently the thought had occurred to him, and was part of his dilemma. He looked at Percival again, and evidently his lack of comprehension was plain, for the king went on to explain. "Nemeth has always been a friend to those with magic – they're made welcome there, and from what I'm told, they have little issue with rogue sorcerers or magical law-breaking. Gedref is something of a sanctuary, a strange and confusing place that acts as a shield between Camelot and Nemeth, one that my father could never cross – but didn't quite give up trying. They may very well have concluded that Merlin is the most powerful man in Camelot –"

"Which he is," Bors said placidly in his growly voice.

Arthur shot him a glare. "And that by marrying their princess to him, they have a claim on his loyalty and his power."

Percival frowned and tried to follow the reasoning – it was clear, but… "Well, Merlin… chooses who to give his loyalty to, they couldn't… force that."

Arthur looked at him. Bors looked at him.

Percival added, "They can't take him from you, Arthur. He wouldn't let that happen."

The king put an elbow on his knee, and wiped his hand across his face. "I know. I know that."

Bors said, "So tell Nemeth no."

Percival couldn't help but wonder, what would happen to the alliance, then.

"I do want to see him happy," Arthur told them. "I know I'll feel that even more strongly, after I'm… married. Gwen says… Mithian is nice. That Merlin could be happy with her."

After a moment, Bors ventured, "Sire, perhaps…"

"What is it?" Arthur said tiredly. Percival could see why he'd been so thoroughly introspective all day – probably the last few days; maybe Merlin as well, since the departure of the royals of Nemeth – only Percival hadn't had occasion to notice.

"Isn't there a chance. That Her Highness made the wisest choice possible? She did not ask for your best warrior or your richest lord. Perhaps the magic is the attraction – though I would not be convinced of that; we heard stories of how he saved her life at the ruined castle. But your Merlin also has qualities that make a fine physician, and, I can imagine, what a woman might value in a husband."

Arthur's brows might have been higher than Percival's.

Bors added, with a rough defensiveness, "I have six children with my wife, sire, and four of them are daughters. I have had to learn something about the way women think, to maintain my sanity."

Percival swallowed his snicker with an effort.

"My worry may be entirely useless, anyway," Arthur said, releasing his inner turmoil enough to stretch the muscles of his upper body. "I could not order nor advise nor ask Merlin to do anything he didn't want to, or think was right. And he knows that. It's his decision, after all."

Percival wondered if maybe Merlin wasn't finding it an easy decision. He and Gwaine had been gone for a very long time.

"Please excuse me, sire," he said, arranging his long legs to lift himself from the ground. "I – think our fire could do with a bit more fuel laid by for the night."

Arthur glanced up with a rueful look – he probably knew what Percival meant to do – but nodded. Percival was glad his king trusted him enough not to warn him, _don't tell Merlin_ any part of the conversation he wouldn't have reach Merlin's ears.

As he stepped over the log to head for the part of the forest where he'd last seen his two friends, Bors added a surprising, "Good luck."

It wasn't hard for Percival to locate his two friends.

Only halfway to true dark, and Gwaine carrying a torch, and the reason they were away from camp wasn't the bundle of twigs under Merlin's arm anyway. Gwaine didn't even bother with appearances, but Merlin almost couldn't help himself, Percival thought, watching him locate and lean for another piece of branch.

"No, nothing like that," the young sorcerer was saying. "Just one of the kitchen-maids, who cut her thumb on a carving-knife. And they didn't want to call Gaius away from Nemeth's official leave-taking."

Gwaine grunted, kicking fallen leaves as Percival joined them. "Maybe you should marry the princess then," he said, "get out of that kind of attention from the girls."

"So they can focus it back on you?" Percival guessed. Gwaine swung round at the sound of his voice, shadows from the torch dancing and twisting wildly.

Merlin didn't even turn, head bowed as he searched the ground for kindling – and internally, for peace, it might be. "Arthur told you?"

Percival strode to him, snapping twigs and rustling leaves beneath his boots, and took his bundle of collected broken branches, to free Merlin's hands and arms for more. Would that he could bear Merlin's other burdens so easily. "Sir Bors worried that Arthur was withholding information about the kings we journey to meet. Arthur put his mind to rest, telling him what he was actually preoccupied with."

Merlin grunted and shuffled a few steps, bending for another stick – then rejecting it for reasons best known to himself, tossing it away into the dim beyond the torchlight with rather more vehemence than absolutely necessary. "Arthur made sure I knew, it was perfectly fine for me to say no. And no one would say another word on the matter."

"Well, there you go," Gwaine said easily.

Merlin gave him a look without raising his head; Gwaine showed the palm of his free hand in surrender, and Percival was glad the look hadn't been directed at him.

"And then," Merlin added, "he _thinks_ about it for the next three days." The young sorcerer stopped, facing outward to the growing darkness. His sigh slumped his shoulders in a way that bothered Percival, and the glance he exchanged with Gwaine was answered by a grimace.

"You really don't want her?" Percival said curiously.

"It's… not… I don't _know_ her," Merlin told the gathering twilight. "I already loved somebody, and… Mithian's a _princess_!"

"Can't ask for better than that," Gwaine hinted, his humor gentled for the sake of their softer-hearted friend. And because he didn't clamor for the story of Merlin's already-loved, Percival assumed he knew it.

"But there's me, a _servant_."

"A sorcerer," Gwaine answered.

"Barely any kind of apprentice, and a good third of the population still won't meet my eyes –"

"A dragonlord," Gwaine insisted in a sing-song, and Percival smiled. Merlin did tend to think too little of himself.

"From Ealdor." Merlin turned to look at Gwaine, then. "You've been there, you've seen – let me tell you, it can't hold a candle to Gedref, much less the seat of Nemeth's power."

"We've seen Descalot, too," Percival put in. "They claim you kin."

Merlin spared him a glance entirely without humor. "What about my mother?" he said to Gwaine.

Percival had met Hunith, and liked her, as he thought most people did. She was quiet and sweet, but he suspected some no-nonsense steel in there somewhere. She'd have to have, to do what she'd done with Merlin for a son. Not unlike Gwen, he thought, and wished he'd gotten to know the Nemeth princess better.

"Your mother is friends with Camelot's future queen," Gwaine said evenly. "And Gwen is going to outrank Mithian. Your noble cousin loves Hunith like her own mother, too. And she has no problem sitting across the table from a Pendragon prince to discuss magic. She'll be fine. I'm sure Nemeth knew these things about you, Merlin, before the offer was made."

"That's what worries me," Merlin murmured. He swayed in place for a moment, thoughtfully, then stepped forward between them. "Should get back before Arthur sends out a search party."

"If you don't want to marry her," Percival said, remembering Arthur's worry of why Nemeth wanted Merlin – and perhaps that was Merlin's worry, too. "Just say so. Arthur won't force you, I don't think your decline of the proposal will even bother him much, really."

"No?" Merlin mused. "Nemeth borders Odin's kingdom. We need the alliance, and signatures are nowhere near as strong as blood, for ties of unification."

"Arthur would not want you unhappy," Percival offered softly.

Gwaine could have teased, and didn't.

Merlin snorted. "I'm better at hiding that than he is at hiding his worry. I don't know… Much may depend on these two kings, and what comes of Arthur's meeting with them."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The next day, as the border disappeared behind them and they entered Mercia's territory, Percival was riding just off Arthur's right, when Merlin kneed his gray-speckled white mare up beside the king's mount. Startling Arthur, Percival thought, with his voluntary company – not that it was unwelcome.

"So I hear," Merlin said, clearly enough to be heard by Bors ahead of the king, Gwaine behind Merlin, and maybe Kay behind Gwaine. "That you're _not_ withholding information about either Bayard or Alined."

Arthur turned to look at him, his body moving easily with the gait of his mount. "And you are?"

Bors glanced back; Percival met his eyes knowing that he was listening. Arthur and Merlin probably both knew it, too.

"Bayard's second visit," Merlin said. "After the troll incident."

"Troll?" Gwaine said, echoing Percival's thought aloud. He took in Bors' lack of response, twisted in the saddle to look back at Kay. Percival did the same a moment later, to see a badly-hidden smirk on the young knight's freckled face. "Hey, that's not fair if _they_ know!"

Merlin continued, ignoring Gwaine for the moment. "You think I didn't realize that you and Gaius conspired to have me busy elsewhere, whenever you were in company with King Bayard. Out of sight, out of mind?"

"My father told me," Arthur said, "that Bayard can hold a grudge longer than he can give a speech."

Which was to say, Percival interpreted, a very long time.

"King Bayard of Mercia had a grudge against Merlin?" Gwaine asked. And he did not sound characteristically amused.

"Do you really think he'll remember that?" Merlin asked Arthur directly.

"Being accused of conspiring to assassination, and subjected to arrest in another sovereign's capital?" Arthur said. "I'd find that hard to forget – and those who were involved."

"What did he do?" Percival asked into the pause.

"A sorceress infiltrated Bayard's retinue and tried to poison Arthur," Merlin said, gathering his reins and adjusting his seat. "Uther blamed Bayard."

"Initially," Arthur added, a bit stiffly. Percival had noticed his tendency to defensiveness when his father was mentioned – and didn't truly blame the young king. "He apologized - and the second visit went smoothly enough, and the treaty holds."

"Does the grudge hold?" Gwaine said, with intense curiosity.

"Just…" Arthur's suggestion bordered on command, to Percival's ear. "Don't draw attention to yourself, this week."

"I promise to be as discreet as Alined's sorcerer," Merlin said.

The king snorted. "That jester? He was just a silly…" He trailed off – then turned to look at Merlin. Which was away from Percival, but he could judge Arthur's expression pretty well by the look on Merlin's face – as if he hoped to appease his sovereign's reaction to an offensive truth swiftly and sweetly. "Do you mean to say –"

"Yeah. Magic."

"He dared?" Arthur's voice rose, but it sounded like his teeth were clenched. "In the middle of the banquet, with everyone _watching_ him?"

"It wasn't complicated stuff," Merlin said. "Except for the love spell."

"Love spell?" Gwaine said, interested.

Arthur was facing forward again, and Percival's curious sidelong glance was not enough to read the king's impassivity.

"Vivian," he said. "That ridiculous little man enchanted us?"

"Intended to start a war between your father and hers," Merlin said, watching Arthur watch the road. "I guess Alined doesn't love peace as much as he claims…" Arthur grunted, and Merlin ventured to add saucily, "You're welcome."

"For?" Gwaine pressed, when Arthur didn't object Merlin's tacit claim of responsibility for averting the crisis.

"Pushing Gwen at him," Merlin said, grinning when it became apparent that Arthur's temper wasn't going to be engaged over the occasion. "True love's kiss broke the enchantment. Though it took some arguing to get her to do it, after Arthur had been mooning over Lady Vivian."

Arthur let his head drop, shaking it in an attitude of ruefulness – still not disputing any point of Merlin's story.

True love. Percival wondered what that would be like.

"So what about this Vivian, what happened to her?" Gwaine asked.

"She's married now," Arthur answered distantly, lifting his eyes to alertness of their surroundings again. "Had a letter from her father this summer. Our treaty with them remains unchanged. He can't travel for health reasons but he'll sign a fresh copy if I prefer my name to my father's. Or we can journey to visit."

"Next year?" Gwaine asked. Because they all knew, after this expedition they were meant to detour slightly to Lord Godwyn's estate, and then it would be winter. No wars, no journeys, when the uncertain weather made the roads and distances perilous.

"Perhaps," Arthur said neutrally. "No issue was taken with our change in policy on magic, but they weren't keen on having Merlin or the dragon cross their border, so…" He shrugged, and Percival interpreted, Perhaps not, if peace and the treaty were kept.

"Breaks my heart," Merlin said sardonically.

"But," Arthur said, bringing the conversation back to the point, "If Alined has had a secret sorcerer for quite some time… Do you suppose that makes him more sympathetic to the changes we've made in Camelot?"

"I think he'd be happiest if I wore a belled hat and danced jigs," Merlin said. Gwaine snickered, and Percival suspected it was a deliberate attempt to lighten Arthur's mood. Merlin straightened at the king's look – again hidden, Percival was disappointed to note – and pointed right in Arthur's face. "No. Absolutely not."

"Too bad," Arthur said, very clearly and with an audible grin. "Bayard might expect a hat of some sort…"

Merlin flushed crimson, to Percival's surprise. And said with chagrin, "Damn you."

Arthur laughed right out loud, throwing his head back – and wore his best crooked grin for a significant time after. As long as Merlin pretended to be grumpy, anyway.

Percival, for his part – and he rather thought his fellow knights thought the same – took instruction from the conversation.

One king who might be inclined to take offense at Merlin's presence, recalling a humiliation at Arthur's father's hands. And the other who might assume that Arthur's tendencies for deception and manipulation and an unethical use of surreptitious magic matched his own.

No wonder Arthur preferred to worry about Merlin's matrimonial prospects.

Well, at least they now knew what they had to guard against in Mercia.

 **A/N: Sorry you didn't get to meet Percival's intended, this chapter. Next one, though – along with Arthur dueling Bayard's son, and Percival drinking a poisoned chalice… spoilers!**


	5. Percival (2)

**Chapter 5: Percival** (part 2)

The land of Mercia that surrounded Bayard's stronghold of Tamwyrth was gently rolling hills, fields and meadows rather than thick forests wrinkled with jagged drops and rocky ravines. Tamwyrth itself sat on the greatest rise – which wasn't saying much – in a bend of the river Tame, a wide, slow-moving behemoth that guarded the castle on three sides.

The fourth side faced a series of wide terraces bordered by various tended fruit trees, where the townspeople dwelt in rising levels. A wide short road led straight from castle gates down to training field, overlooked by a watch… well, _tower_ wasn't quite the word for it. Rather a round pavilion with all sides open above a waist-high railing, covered with a conical roof.

The castle itself was wide and low, darker than Camelot, in color of stone and in lack of windows letting daylight into inner rooms. Percival found it hard to get used to Mercian blue everywhere, rather than Camelot red.

Alined's colors were muted, blue-gray that was more gray than blue, his standard divided into quarters of both blue and red. Percival hadn't gotten a good look at the rampant animal featured, but he privately thought it more jackal than lion. Alined's seat of power, he gathered at the welcome feast, their first night, was less than a day's ride from the Mercian capital, somewhat closer to Camelot but smaller than Tamwyrth, therefore less fit to receive both Bayard and Arthur.

Bors and Sindran, as senior knights, were selected to stand in the council chamber for the first day of the king's discussion. Merlin was introduced officially - though Alined's sorcerer was not – and Arthur expected plenty of royal curiosity to be satisfied before he was excused from the proceedings. Bayard's son Wolfrick joined the kings, but the rest of the entourages were invited to make themselves at home – join the the Mercian knights or view the various beauties and interests of the castle Tamwyrth and surrounding countryside.

So Percival and Gwaine and several of the others wandered, much of that first day, looking for any sign of a man who fit the description of Alined's Trickler, but ready to be stopped and questioned by various and sundry Mercians who were curious as to the truth of rumors about magic in Camelot.

For the noon meal he met Gwaine in the castle barracks, as they'd all been instructed, since the kings and their handful of attendants were to dine privately. Hearty fare, and plenty – Gwaine hadn't seen Trickler, hadn't any stories more interesting than Percival's few encounters with the citizenry, and planned to spend the afternoon watching Merlin's back as the visiting sorcerer made himself pleasant to Tamwyrth.

With a slight headache, and the knowledge that he couldn't really help Gwaine in his self-appointed task - and might actually hinder his two friends, if it seemed that Camelot's sorcerer needed _two_ guards – Percival let his feet take him outside the castle.

Clad in his mail and red cloak for ready identification, he wandered down the short wide road, along the row of trees bordering the lowest tier of houses and shops, just above the training field. The faint clash of swordplay and the fainter thump of the archery butts was a soothing accompaniment as he sauntered along, uncomfortably chill in the waning afternoon sun.

Perhaps he should seek some exercise on the training field. Or perhaps the three kings would reach consensus today – their second feast tonight could be their last, and Arthur's party could depart for Gawant on the morrow.

He skirted an unhitched hay cart, and his attention was drawn by a handful of children ten paces ahead of him in the lane, gathered under the wide branches of a crabapple tree. His inclination to smile was checked by the realization that the sounds he heard from them weren't happy playfulness, but jeering – and maybe a note of pleading, too.

Percival hastened his steps to see what was the matter.

The tallest child, and the center of the ring, was a girl on the brink of being a young lady, with dark hair that showed red where the sun caught it, straight until the ends curved to brush her neck and hide her ears. Lady, too; the brown of her high-waisted dress was more bronze than dirt-color, and shone with the subtlety of silk under a matching jacket with embroidery and tassels, that stretched with her arms, upward toward the tree.

Past the group of children, Percival glimpsed a pair of knights with blue-gray tunics, slouched in bored conversation and paying little attention to the situation. He wondered briefly that the girl hadn't called on them for help, but didn't slow his step, seeing that the closest child at the red-haired girl's feet was a curly-haired thing, runny-nosed and weeping tragically.

"I told you to give it back!" The girl stamped the dainty slipper on her foot, without much effect.

A few of the children scattered when Percival passed through their perimeter, and as he approached the tall girl, he could see two more urchins in the low branches of the tree. One of the distant knights glanced him over; he met the man's eyes with a slight bow to convey pure intentions, and neither straightened nor moved from their place.

The nearer one called lazily, "My lady, come away from there…" and the girl gave no sign that she'd heard.

"You give it back _right now_ ," she demanded upward again, sounding cross.

"Gahn," one of the tree-climbers sneered. "Wot 'chur gonna do about –"

Percival ducked just slightly, and the dirty-faced lad met his eyes with a noticeable widening of his own. Both boys were well within Percival's reach; they knew it, and the fact that they probably couldn't climb fast enough to evade his grasp. He contented himself with raising his hands to his hips in silent warning.

"Yeah, all right, never mind," the boy said hastily – to Percival, he thought. Shuffling in his position stretched out on the branch, he took his hand out of his ragged jacket – a white scrap of fluff filling his grip.

It mewed piteously as he extended it.

The low excited chatter of the gathered children included the word _knight_ , but the tall red-haired girl was intent on the handful of fluff.

"That's better," she scolded, rising on tiptoe to receive the kitten. "It's cruel of you to steal her pet, and I hope you've learned your lesson and that – you never – do it… again…"

She couldn't quite reach, and the boy couldn't lower the kitten any further without actually descending – which he probably wasn't willing to do with Percival there. Then again, with Percival walking away, he might not be so willing to release the abducted pet.

So Percival lifted up his own hand. The Lady gasped and bumped into him with a startled step back – whirled and retreated, as the boy let the tiny white kitten pass to Percival's temporary guardianship.

He looked down at the urchin still dripping tears – fearful now of him, his size and gender and age – then at the well-dressed girl. Another curve of brown-streaked red hair brushed her raised brows; a rift of freckles crossed her nose. And he couldn't decide what color her eyes were – curiously light but for a dark rim that matched her lashes.

"My lady," he said, gently making it into a question, offering her the kitten with a brief but respectful bow.

"Oh," she said, dropping her eyes to the kitten, who mewed as its head bobbed unsteadily over Percival's thumb. Then the girl stepped forward, reaching to scoop the creature up with both hands.

"Careful," Percival couldn't help saying. The girl paused to meet his eyes – wary of him, but curious and well-mannered. "It's still frightened. It might scratch you."

The girl's hands tipped and softened, to lightly smooth the white fluff; she swayed closer to Percival's outstretched hand to coo to the kitten. "There now. You're not so high – it's not so scary. Come here, sweet," she said to the younger child at Percival's feet. "You speak to her, she knows you, she'll be glad for you to hold her again, yes?"

The child struggled to bare feet, watching Percival rather than the kitten, shy now rather than heartbroken. He wondered if he shouldn't crouch further down, but hesitated to move too much and startle them both.

"See?" the girl said, carefully picking the kitten up from Percival's hand, cradling it and bending to other child's level. "She's safe. She's not been harmed. Say, _thank you, Sir Knight_."

The child blinked up at him, ducked the curly head again.

The red-haired girl offered Percival a small amused smile, saying gravely in her little friend's stead, "Thank you, Sir Knight."

"My pleasure, my lady," Percival said. Behind him, he heard a shout; maybe Gwaine's voice, calling his name. Caught himself in turning to leave to give a stern look up into the tree. "Find something better to do," he advised the boys.

They mumbled, "Yessir."

He turned on his heel, glimpsing a number of crimson capes at the end of the terrace at the road. That made him hurry, though not all of his companions waited.

Arthur, in the lead, headed down toward the training field dotted with Mercian cornflower-blue. Gwaine – and Merlin in his second-best tanned jacket with brass buttons – lingered while Percival caught up. Gwaine was bouncing on his toes in eager impatience, while Merlin stared pensively into his own thoughts.

"That bad?" Percival asked them in amused sympathy.

"Arthur's not happy," Merlin said softly, his feet moving before he'd finished speaking, to follow their king striding down to the field.

"Hence the training before dinner," Gwaine declared, somewhat needlessly.

Nothing Percival didn't already know about their sovereign. All of Camelot knew, probably, that Arthur's moods were exercised along with his skills and muscles.

"What happened this morning?" he asked, falling in step with them on Merlin's other side. In front of them walked Sir Sindran and Kay the currently untitled knight, still earning back his oath after his attack on Merlin at the king's coronation that spring.

"Alined is oily as ever, promising everything and committing to nothing," Merlin said absently, his eyes fixed ahead of them on Arthur's back. "He pretended surprise to meet me, brushed off an oblique inquiry after Trickler… The sorcerer could be here. He could be dead. Alined wouldn't say. But he was… very flattering."

"To Arthur?" Percival asked.

"To me." Merlin's brows drew together. Gwaine made a sound of disgust and gave a theatrical shudder.

"And the alliance?" They stepped off the paving of the road that rose to Castle Tamwyrth's gate, to the grass of the field; Percival reached to unclasp his ceremonial cloak at the shoulder.

"Arthur thinks he's deliberately delaying, reaching any agreements," Merlin admitted.

"Why, though?" Gwaine said, already rolling up his own cape, careless of the possibility of wrinkles.

Merlin shrugged. "Who knows? Reasons that benefit only himself, probably."

Percival grunted. No one was happy with delays. "What about Bayard, then?"

Both his friends glanced about, but Percival was not so thoughtless as to say the king's name before any of his knights. Ahead of them, Arthur had stopped at one of the weapons tables dividing the wide field into sections where various skills were being practiced. Maces, flails, and battle-axes; Arthur must be in a really foul mood.

"Bayard wants to retract promises of mutual military and practical aid. And instead sign the barest pact of nonviolence. We don't attack them, they don't attack us. And that's it."

Percival was not skilled at politics. "What about trade, then?"

Merlin sighed and shrugged. "To be discussed tomorrow."

"Well, that doesn't make sense," Gwaine said, shoving his cloak into Merlin's waiting arms and drawing his sword to begin preliminary stretching exercises. "It was Uther he was mad at – why take it out on Arthur?"

"Because Arthur isn't Uther," Merlin said, as if that was sufficient explanation.

He turned to Percival, took his cloak also, then left them to stride toward Arthur and the others at the table.

"Nobles, eh?" Gwaine said sardonically. His sword whistled viciously through the air as he swung and stepped his way through the forms – bending and twisting methodically, faster and faster. "Take all day to talk – and don't give you a plain answer – or a decent explanation…"

"They can't all be Arthur," Percival said reasonably, drawing his own sword.

Gwaine grunted, and attacked.

They weren't armed with dull-bladed practice weapons, so both of them avoided clashing blades, instead weaving and spinning and ducking, their edges occasionally singing along chainmail or the opposing blade. Because, Percival knew, Gwaine was quite like Arthur that way – physical activity, the thrill and challenge of combat – was soothing. To feel in control, to achieve victory through pushing harder and moving faster – and then to have the aching weight and weariness, clean and honest, to remind and convince, good had been accomplished.

It might have been a quarter of an hour, or three, til they disengaged and lowered their swords, panting and grinning at each other. Percival was certain Gwaine had gotten in more hits, though they rarely discussed numbers. That didn't matter so much as the action itself, though Percival was both glad and proud that he didn't make it easy for Gwaine.

"What's this now?" Gwaine said, straightening and narrowing his eyes to gaze beyond Percival's left elbow.

He turned to see four knights wearing blue tunics, facing Arthur, Kay, and Sindran across the heavy-weapons table. Merlin was at the corner, his arms full of crimson fabric – no one paying him any attention, but his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes darted from Arthur to the central figure in blue – dark hair shorter than Leon's, beard fuller than Gwaine's. Behind which, Percival suspected, was a full-blown sneer.

"That's Wolfrick," Gwaine said. "Prince of Mercia."

Older than Arthur by at least five years, and maybe as many as ten, Percival had thought upon their introduction the previous day. Gwaine moved past him, and he followed, if only to keep his hot-tempered and outspoken friend from getting into trouble by himself.

"Well, I see only one way of settling the matter," the blue-clad prince was saying arrogantly. "Cross your sword with mine, and we'll see which is better."

 _Sword or man?_ Percival wondered.

"That would not be appropriate, Highness," Arthur said distinctly. "This is no tournament. And peaceful negotiations should not be hazarded to settle scores or satisfy whims."

"The whims of Camelot are legendary," Wolfrick said spitefully – but he turned and said it to the Mercian knight on his left, to avoid giving the offense too directly, and prevent Arthur from calling him on it. "Justice, being one of them."

Arthur stiffened. "Have you an accusation to bring?" he demanded.

Percival watched Merlin lean forward one intent inch.

"Nothing so substantial." Wolfrick waved the air as if dispersing a cloud of gnats. "Rumor has it, that friend and foe alike suffered Camelot's dungeon under its previous ruler – and that it stands perpetually empty under its current one."

Gwaine growled. Sindran's hand was on the hilt of the sword in his belt. Percival felt like laughing in sheer disbelief, that one royal should so blatantly provoke another, at a time like this.

Merlin said, quiet-desperate, " _Arthur_."

"Ah," Wolfrick said, affecting surprise as he turned to point toward Merlin. "And there is my proof, I think."

"There is proof," Arthu said between his teeth, "that justice in Camelot is _not_ capricious. We judge a man by his own deeds. Not his father's."

Wolfrick's smile slipped, and he cocked his head as if trying to fathom a deeper meaning in the king's words.

"Perhaps," Arthur continued, "the bards of your father's court will astonish us tonight at the feast with ballads of _your_ feats and prowess." He turned away from the table with an air of finality; behind him, the Mercian prince's face purpled under his beard.

"What, like slaying a dragon," he hurled snidely at Arthur's back. "Or marrying a troll?"

Arthur stopped. Behind him at the table, Merlin closed his eyes and tipped his face to the sky. Beside Percival, Gwaine twisted to scan the training field near them – for blunted practice swords, Percival was sure. Because now… The king turned back around, shaking his head. Still shaking his head, as Merlin met his eyes silently, as if to say, _You know I can't just let that pass_. Merlin said nothing to disagree.

Wolfrick showed his teeth in a grimace of satisfaction.

"In front of these witnesses," Arthur said clearly, "I call you to account for your deliberate insults, baldly and brashly spoken to a sovereign power and a higher rank. Truth aside, your disrespect for my kin and my house and my kingdom intentionally provokes an answer of arms."

"Finally," Wolfrick snapped. "We'll see if you're all talk."

Percival wondered if the prince had not been _watching_ Arthur train. Or if he had that vaunted a view of his own abilities.

Gwaine returned with three blades cradled across his elbows. He offered them first to Arthur as the offended party; Arthur only lifted his chin. Gwaine interpreted the wordless command as Percival would have, and turned to present first choice of weapons to their king's opponent.

Percival back-stepped as Wolfrick chose his weapon, and Gwaine turned to offer Arthur his choice of the remaining two practice-swords. Sindran and Kay did the same, retreating from the weapons-table but keeping their king at the center of a protective circle, as Wolfrick came out from behind it, flanked by his knights and swinging his chosen dull-blade in preparation for the sparring-match duel.

The Mercian crown prince knew what he was doing, that much was immediately apparent, and he was fit – though that, and his greater years, did not necessarily mean more experienced or more skillful.

Arthur stepped to meet him. He'd been exercising already with Kay and Sindran – come to think of it, maybe that was why Wolfrick picked the fight just now – and only spun his sword once at his side, to feel the balance of a new weapon, before settling into a defensive stance that invited the other to begin.

Percival was aware that they were drawing increasing attention across the field, as word spread of _who_. Mercia's crown prince, and the visiting king of Camelot. He wondered how far the story of Bayard's incarceration at Uther's command had spread.

For a moment the two waited, motionless and intent, each gauging and seeking openings while trying to disclose nothing to the other – though if Wolfrick had been watching Arthur fight, he had that advantage. Percival was familiar enough with Arthur to see that the king was thoroughly irritated with this opponent and still impatient with the situation and lack of progress in the council room, but firmly in control.

And Wolfrick attacked first.

In a flurry of blows – Percival concentrated, separated, and recognized – difficult, tricky, skilled. Studied, chosen, technically perfect – but without the ease or natural grace of instinct. Wolfrick probably had enjoyed the best training from the most proficient masters – but possibly an opponent who hadn't the concern of a subject for his prince, was rare. It could be also that Wolfrick was better used to the controlled setting of tournament-arenas and training-field, than to bandit attacks in deep-forest glens and life-or-death clashes with magic-enhanced armies.

The prince wasn't testing. He was bringing his full complement of skill and training, hard and fast to humiliate as well as defeat.

And Arthur let him. Conserving energy – his was somewhat less, having been exercising already an hour, while Wolfrick was fresh – defending and watching and learning.

"Well struck, my lord!"

"Harder, sire, you have him! Go, now!"

The Mercian knights cheered in appropriate manner – short phrases and clear, though not loud. None of Percival's comrades spoke, watching as Arthur watched, allowing the natives to assume the advantage.

Percival saw the moment Wolfrick realized it.

And the crown prince lost his temper. Abandoned his carefully controlled and ineffectual skills and hammered at Arthur with all his strength and not a little rage.

Arthur allowed that also. Circling, ducking, defending – Percival heard more exultation in the calls of the Mercian knights, more derision in the noises of the gathering observers. But Wolfrick's blade didn't so much as touch the king of Camelot.

In the end, Arthur's offense took three moves, in the space of a single heartbeat. Step close, twist, sling –

Arthur held the pose – feet apart, knees bent, both hands on the sword-hilt, level with his right ear, elbow aloft. The tip of the dull practice blade bobbing in the hollow of Wolfrick's throat with his nervous swallow. His face was red as a beet.

Dead silence. Percival was glad Gwaine had the presence of mind to hold his tongue on his own cheer of victory.

The king's body moved with inaudible panting; he straightened and let his blade drop to his side. Stepping closer to Wolfrick, he offered his hand – which the prince took involuntarily, uncomprehending.

"Let that be an end to it," Arthur said distinctly.

Wolfrick didn't answer, but disengaged. Arthur moved past him to deposit the practice sword on the weapons-table with a clatter, hardly pausing before heading for the edge of the field and the short road to Tamwyrth's gate.

Gwaine fell in at Arthur's elbow, respectfully not-quite-even with the king, and Kay and Sindran close behind, striding in step. That left Percival, not fully comfortable with presenting their backs to the Mercians – and Merlin moving slowly away from the weapons table. The same thought in his mind, by his face.

Merlin exchanged a glance with Percival – and understood his _you-go-first_ expression. The younger man turned, beginning to hurry to catch up with the king; Percival was half a moment slower.

Movement in the corner of his vision, somehow more violent than the disconsolate wandering-away of the knights whose prince was not the victor.

Percival turned his head fractionally, enough to see Wolfrick hurl something from the table – heavy and sharp – with dangerous intent. Murderous intent. And Arthur was too far to be the target, too many men between him and the older Mercian prince.

He bellowed, " _Mer_ -"

The young sorcerer twisted, open hands raised to halt the mace in midair.

Expertly thrown. And Merlin wore no armor. There would have been torn flesh, maybe broken bones, deep and dangerous bruising – and definitely another fine jacket from the king ruined.

At the table, Wolfrick straightened from his attack. Thirty paces distant, Arthur was stopped, turned and watching calmly – his hand on Gwaine's arm to hold the knight in place.

Merlin never touched the weapon. It hovered, floating through the air mere inches from his chest as he stepped back to the table, eyes burning the gold of magic the while.

And the mace settled back into place with a _chink-click_ of metal.

"I believe you've misplaced something, sire," Merlin said to Wolfrick, as clearly and steadily as Arthur had spoken.

No one said anything. Another time, another place, another person, Gwaine might have joked, _Your manners, maybe_?

Hands at his sides, Merlin made a stiff, formal little bow, then turned and strode to join Arthur – who watched Wolfrick an expressionless moment longer, before tossing his arm casually over Merlin's shoulders for the next half-dozen paces.

Percival lengthened his stride to keep in Camelot's company, but the look on the crown prince's face was subdued thoughtfulness. He hoped that this afternoon's dual test had taught Wolfrick something he'd be willing to learn… But as they approached the short road to the castle gate, Percival noticed that the watch-pavilion was occupied. A handful of knights in the dimmer interior – and two older men at the rail facing the training field, wearing each his own crown.

How much had the other kings witnessed?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival did not consider himself a complicated man – nor did he consider himself one prone to nerves.

But that evening, their second feast at Tamwyrth, Percival could not relax into the padded bench at the end of one of the two long tables, where the knights of Camelot had been seated. It bothered him that he couldn't put his finger on why.

Next to him, Gwaine was already soothing nerves of another sort with a second pouring of mead, slouched on the bench and working himself up to his ridiculous joke about the doe and the buck; Merlin and Kay across the table elbowed each other with a surreptitious smirk at Gwaine's unwitting expense.

"And the doe pretended she wasn't listening, see…" They'd all heard it before; Percival turned his attention outward again.

At the top of the room, a shorter table was lifted above the rest of them on a dais, seating the three kings – Bayard as host in the center, Arthur in clear view and lounging sideways on the arm of his chair. Bored perhaps – Bayard's ability to talk without ceasing apparently rivaled Gwaine's, though the consensus seemed to be, Gwaine was more interesting by far – but that was better than impatient and irritated. And Percival could read no tension in the Mercian king to indicate ill feeling toward Arthur for the incident on the training field. He wondered briefly if he should have told Arthur that their host had seen some, if not all, of his bout with the crown prince. He wondered if Wolfrick and his father had discussed the match, and what had been said. If it truly would be the end of it, as Arthur had suggested.

But still the disquietude would not leave him. Their backs were to the wall; no one could get behind them but the servants. No one was behaving threateningly, or even sullenly. Whatever mood had prevailed in the council room had not affected the company of knights, anyway.

Thinking of servants, Percival noticed that at the end of the high table opposite to Arthur, one of the servants bowed over his silver pitcher to listen to some command of Alined's, and a whisper of definition brushed Percival's unsettled instincts.

"The servants here," he blurted, interrupting Gwaine's joke and catching Merlin's attention, across the table from them with his back to the room. "Are they all Mercian, or did some travel with King Alined?"

None of the servants of Camelot's citadel had come with them. There was a trio of squires to assist the knights of the retinue, and Merlin himself had volunteered to perform Orryn's duties with Arthur, so the curly-haired manservant could remain in Camelot with his family. Otherwise the knights – and Arthur himself; Kay claimed and Bors corroborated, he was much less arrogant and entitled about sharing chores than he used to be – did for themselves and each other.

Merlin twisted on the bench to glance around, as did Gwaine, though Kay scooted and turned away to talk to the other knights.

"Some are Alined's," Merlin concluded. "Though they're all in Mercian livery for the banquet."

There was the faintest expression of distaste on his face; Percival tried to imagine him wearing the colors and symbols of another sovereignty, for any reason, and couldn't.

Merlin added, with more intensity than curiosity, "Why?"

Percival clenched his teeth briefly, as the servant closest to Alined retrieved the king's goblet, to exchange for another, and bore the rejected vessel away on a tray. "A funny feeling."

"Not you, too," Gwaine protested.

At the same time as Merlin said, "I've felt the same thing, tonight. Nothing definite, and I'm keeping my eye on Arthur, but…"

Gwaine lifted his goblet to the high table, and Percival leaned to see Arthur acknowledge the salute with a wry half-smile. Maybe a subdued sigh. Clearly trying to relax and play the part of a pleasant guest.

Well, maybe Percival should make a better attempt to do the same, if Merlin was watching out for their king. And the roast beef and the stuffed quail and the smoked cheese were really quite good. And the mead was heady without being too strong, with an unusual tang Percival had never encountered before.

"Oh, I know what that is," Gwaine claimed. "Elderflower, that's a specialty of Mercia…"

And a servant with a tray – a heavy pitcher, a trio of already-filled goblets – bent over Merlin's shoulder to set one of the cups down by his elbow, retrieving an empty one back to his tray before moving on. Merlin shifted out of his way in an instinctual manner, remaining intent on Gwaine's storytelling – the making of Mercian mead – but Percival watched the servant move along the knights' table, once setting another goblet down, twice pouring from the pitcher to refill a cup already in use.

He couldn't tell if anything was out of the ordinary. And Merlin hadn't alerted to any deviation from acceptable serving-behavior. Aside from his own knighting feast, and Elyan's last month, Percival hadn't ever been to a gathering this formal and august – it grated, just a bit, to keep asking questions like this, when Gwaine at least already seemed to know the answer.

Percival was a firm believer in, _Better to keep quiet and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt._

He leaned forward. The silver cup at Merlin's elbow contained the deep red of wine, rather than the golden glow of mead; perhaps Merlin was being afforded a greater honor, served a finer quality of drink, but without fuss or ceremony.

"It's as if," Merlin was saying, "they've decided that I'm a lord in Camelot, and that's how they're treating me. Politely, but distantly."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Gwaine responded, tipping his cup back.

"I suppose, but they all watch me, too, like… curious children, expecting magic all the time…"

Percival could not help but think of poison and enchantments, and disruption of alliances. Merlin was keeping an eye on Arthur; who was keeping an eye on Merlin? He leaned forward casually, stretching his arm out in placing his own cup down. Just next to Merlin's.

"You know, you could have a lot of fun with that." Gwaine grinned, his dark eyes bright.

"What have they been giving you?" Merlin scolded, bending forward to check the contents of Gwaine's goblet teasingly.

No way of telling, without testing. No way of mentioning suspicions without accusing. Percival shifted his hand. His cup and Merlin's did not look dissimilar. He could be wrong; he could offend their host, if Merlin was later asked, _how did you enjoy the wine_. Could he lie and claim a mistake, to keep the peace?

He retreated back onto his bench, lifting Merlin's wine-chalice to drink.

It was sweet and strange, but Percival's experience with wine was limited; it was more expensive than any other drink at any given tavern. He swallowed carefully, again and again – pausing for breath, halfway through. Wine wasn't meant to be guzzled, but nursed, he knew that much. The deep feeling in his belly and the light feeling in his head might be due to that imprudence.

"Well, for tomorrow, Merlin, you might try…"

Percival wondered how the poison had been proved, in the case of Uther's accusation of Bayard. He was easily half again as much as Merlin's body weight – he could assume that a fatal dose for his slender friend might only make him terribly ill. And as long as Merlin was unaffected, he might also hope for the salvation of magic.

He lifted the cup and drank again, deliberately draining it – Gwaine would probably try to swallow any dregs he left behind, and it wouldn't do to have both of them affected. If there was anything wrong with the drink to begin with.

Merlin's voice came to him echoing and distant, down the faintly roaring tunnel of across the table. "Gwaine, that's a terrible idea. Why did Arthur bring you on this trip, if you're just going to…"

Uther had blamed Bayard. Bayard had been arrested. And now, years later, resisted generosity, if not peace. Alined had attempted to start a war with enchantment.

There had been something in the cup. No idea what it was meant to do to a man, but… Percival was a private man, and not unintelligent. It would not be a good thing for him to collapse here, now, in front of everyone.

He braced his hands on the table, got his feet under him, and rose. And nearly tipped backwards over the bench.

" _Percival!... My friend!... What are you…!"_

"Not feeling well," he managed. His lips and mouth felt molten, and his heart was pounding – though maybe that was due to his knowledge of danger. "Going to… go lie down."

Merlin's face cleared in his vision, mildly alarmed; he was starting to rise. Percival might need him – but if they left together, Arthur might question it…

The thick, hot feeling behind his face began to drain, down his throat and into his chest. He freed himself of the bench and table without a significant stagger. Breath still rushed through his windpipe, back and forth; his heart still pumped blood through his body in thunderous swift rhythm.

Not dying. He felt better, standing. Whatever poison or potion had laced the wine, he could fight it, he could beat it, and foil the enemy plot.

"I'll be all right," he told his friends. "I'll see you later."

"If you're sure," Merlin said uncertainly.

"You're too big to surrender this early," Gwaine objected, equal parts teasing and concern, but he didn't move to rise and hold Percival back; he didn't demand that he resume his seat.

Gwaine was sharing quarters with him. If he could stay awake, he could enlist his friend's help when he came, if it was still needed.

He gave them a grin that was meant to be reassuring; it felt stretched on his face, melted in the heat radiating from deep in his chest. Then turned for the door, touching the wall twice to stay upright. No one called out after him; the tenor of the feast-noise didn't change one tone.

No one else had noticed. He was private, he was safe, there would be no disruptive or disastrous incident.

Heat trickled lower in his belly, growling outward into his arms and lower still into his thighs. It felt not dissimilar to the reaction of a momentary lull in a bandit-skirmish. Energy rushing high, the peculiar exhilaration of _life_ overcoming discomfort of minor wounds – they were nothing, they were victory – blood flowing over his skin as well as through his veins. Never stronger, triumphant and ready to keep fighting the second wave of the assault.

He felt like sprinting. Like giving voice to his fiercest war cry. Like…

Like nothing he'd ever known. He didn't know what it meant, didn't like that this urge was inappropriate to the time and place, as he felt his way along dark unfamiliar halls to his quarters as a guest of the castle.

He paused, leaning on a corner – leaning into the sharp stone of the corner as if that could grant him clarity. The sensation deep in his belly extended claws and plunged them in, doubling him over with a gasp of agony that ricocheted over dark, empty stone. He was glad there was no one about.

Keep going. Out of the maze of corridors, back to his designated chamber and his bed – surely there would be relief to be found there. He could lie down, curl up, moan in his misery with none to hear him…

Once he was moving, claws retracted and nausea rolled back toward the burning drive of battle readiness. He didn't like that.

Perhaps the potion was meant to make him start a fight, injure or kill someone innocent or unsuspecting. Perhaps it was meant to make Merlin do something horrible with his magic – and because Percival didn't have magic, it was… wrong, inside him. Twisting, seeking something that wasn't there.

He tried to turn left at an intersecting hall, convinced of the direction of his room, and his entire body seized, whirling him blindly to the right. The royals' quarters. He didn't belong, but Arthur's assigned chamber was here, and Merlin as his acting manservant would have at least a cot in his antechamber. Maybe that was best, as long as no one else found out. Merlin would come when the feast was over and quench this inexplicable fire…

Which was it, second on the left or third. Did the antechamber have its own door. Was this – rough wood under his fingertips, shuddering separate from the solid stone of the walls – the third door or the fourth.

It felt _right_. The latch lifted, the door swung inward.

The shadows followed him as he staggered for the light – candle on a side table; it tottered, the pitcher wobbled –

What in hell's name was the poison trying to make him _do_?

Breath evenly, though his pulse was thundering in his head. Throbbing through his body – he was too hot.

Feverishly his fingers fumbled for his belt – they felt swollen and sensitive – casting it aside, yanking off his tunic. Struggling from the chainmail he usually had a comrade's help with.

It wasn't enough. He ripped at the buttons of the gambeson he'd also removed the sleeves from, writhed his way out of that down to his skin. Kicked off his boots.

Still too hot. He thought he was going to burst like a rotting corpse in the sun.

"Ah, damn," he moaned, sinking to his knees, grabbing at the pitcher and basin on the way down. The candle tipped, rolled, and extinguished itself.

Which was fine. Then he could vomit into the basin – dinner, wine, and poison in a stinking stream of corruption – without having to see any of it. His stomach – throat – mouth _burned_.

Discarding the basin clattering to the floor, and reaching for the pitcher with unsteady hands, he rinsed his mouth with water and spat in the general direction of the fouled vessel. Then turned the pitcher over his head - it cooled his skin briefly, but he supposed he'd absorbed some of the potion, after all. His heart still hammered his pulse out through his ears, and he couldn't seem to slow his breathing.

Dripping, he pushed to his feet to stumble toward a vague recollection of the large dark shape of the bed. He kicked into it with his shins before he expected it – tried dizzily to remember the placement of furniture in Arthur's guest chamber – and gave up, flopping down.

Too bad if it was Arthur's bed. And if he died before Merlin got here – it would be a relief.

Feeling for the pillow, he dragged it over his head. That served to focus his body's attention on breathing. Sucking in air deliberately through layers of fabric, so as not to inadvertently smother himself –

At some point, Percival passed out.

 **A/N: I didn't lie when I said you'd meet Percival's intended this chapter… and as that implies his survival, I don't consider this a true cliffie… (feel free to disagree *wink*)**

 **Also. I currently have one (very) long chapter for Lady Sarra's pov. I've contemplated adding a leave-taking scene to round Part 2 out a bit more, but that means I'd probably split it into two chapters, rather than leaving it as one… Let me know, if anyone cares a great deal, whether it should be one and on to Gwaine's section, or two and more complete for Percival's…**


	6. Sarra

**A/N: It occurs to me I might want to give warning for some… hm, hints of underage and noncon intentions/possibilities…**

 **Chapter 6: Sarra**

"You're not a child anymore," her grandfather had told her.

And the excitement of _going along!_ sobered to the fact that he hadn't requested her presence for its own sake, for love and family and genuine personal interest, this time either.

"Nobility always has its price," her grandfather had continued. "This is yours. It is time you learned to sacrifice for your kingdom."

Sarra remembered how her heart had thrilled to what seemed like a challenge, only a few short days ago. _Try me, let me prove my loyalty_. She would never be a man to train and fight in tournaments or in battle – but she could demonstrate the depth of her fidelity with her body, just like the knights did. She could face the unknown, and whatever pain or injury came, just like the knights did.

She wished she didn't have to do it alone.

And realized, at the first banquet at Tamwyrth, she wasn't going to do it alone.

 _He_ would be there. But would he turn out to be an enemy, or a comrade? the sorcerer of Camelot.

Sarra didn't like her grandfather's sorcerer. He was old and unclean and looked at her in a way that raised hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. _Trickler_ was a perfect name for him, given by her grandfather in the same way as the dogs in the kennels and the horses in the stables were given their names. She avoided Trickler. He was silly; he pretended to be silly; she was sure he was capable of great cruelty and the most twisted of dark spells.

Would Camelot's sorcerer be like him?

It wasn't easy, but she managed more than one glimpse of him and his fellows, the second day – ignoring her maid and her guards and wandering where she pleased about the castle, in search but not wishing to be seen, herself.

He was young; she appreciated that much. Tall and slender and black-haired. He had an expressive face, that gave her pause. Did he show what he wished people to see, affecting concentration or cheer, hiding deeper and darker motivation? She wasn't sure; she had not seen enough of him to know for sure.

His king was young, too, and many of the knights that wore red. The king intimidated her; every move was fast and strong and he seemed to wear a frown more often than any other expression. His sorcerer watched him the way Trickler watched her grandfather, gauging his mood and his reactions – but there was no fear in the sorcerer's face when his king was brusque. It was… concern. Genuine, it might be.

And even though the young king frowned, his men – neither knights nor sorcerer – didn't cringe or stiffen. They laughed; they threw their arms over each other's shoulders to stride together down hallways – and both sorcerer and king were occasionally subjected to these displays of physical attention. And neither of them lost their tempers.

Sarra dared to hope, for one of the two outcomes of fulfilling her duty. Even if he hated her, she dared to hope, if he lived, he would not shout or hit her.

If he wasn't the sort of man to raise his voice or his fist, then she did want him to live.

The second night, Sarra learned that anticipation was not a knight's friend. She felt sick to her stomach with trepidation, of keeping herself to the course of duty that had been chosen for her, of holding to resolve rather than breaking down in frightened tears. She made no attempt to attend the feast, pleading a headache – which was more ladylike than a stomachache – and having her dinner brought to her chamber.

Her maid left it with a sympathetic look – as if she suspected something of what Sarra's duty was to be – but no word, since it wasn't a servant's place to speak first. Many times Sarra had wished things were different, growing up in her grandfather's castle. Her parents and elder brother – barely remembered in faint flashes – dead of the plague. Her uncle, the heir, busy with his own affairs – one woman after another, she gathered from gossip overheard about the castle. And her grandfather's recollection of her as a ward, very much like her recollection of her family. It would have been nice to have a friend. Not just, the half-dozen other noble girls about the castle with whom she took lessons and was supposed to keep company; they had their families to go home to. But… someone special. Someone _hers_.

Sarra was used to lying awake in her bed, curled up and alone and lonely, as the long hours of an early evening passed, and no one thought of her. Books helped, but she had not thought to bring any with her to Tamwyrth. As if she could have focused on the written word, when she expected the sorcerer through her door at any moment, really, and then he would…

"Let him do with you as he pleases," she'd been instructed. "Do not fight, do not scream. It should be over fairly quickly – your life will be in no danger, and you will be properly cared for in the morning."

She held her pillow tightly, resting one shoulder against the headboard, trying to keep her breathing steady and her heartbeat calm. Trying _not_ to hear every sound outside her door…

And when a fumbling touch released the latch, she inhaled in sudden quiet panic because – he was _enormous_. She didn't remember the sorcerer was that large. From the bed she watched him stumble to the last candle left alight on her side table, and – he was wearing chainmail, as a knight, and his hair was very short and golden in the single flame.

It was the wrong man.

How could it be the wrong man? Should she scream, after all?

Something had gone wrong, and that fact terrified her. There was no one in control, anymore. No one but the stranger – the candle fell and extinguished - in the dark.

He struggled out of his clothes, and she hid her eyes. He was audibly ill, and she shivered. When he slumped onto the bed, she shrank away.

And nothing happened.

Moments passed, and her body began to calm all on its own – if she'd been a knight, she would have known that the state of heightened tension could not last unsupported.

He remained motionless, and she relaxed.

More time passed, and she could not convince herself that he was still awake. And then she wondered if so much time had passed, that everyone else in Tamwyrth had gone to sleep but her.

Perhaps her sacrifice was to be made in the morning?

The stranger was atop the covers. She didn't tug, but slowly and carefully nestled down, keeping her legs drawn up for the warmth, resting her head on the pillows. Resting her eyes…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When Sarra woke, there was a gleam of daylight at the curtains of the window. She shifted in her nest of bedding and felt that the blankets were still pinned, on the other side of the bed, by the stranger's body. Since he still lay unmoving, she shifted a little more to stretch out her legs, and lift herself onto her elbows.

It was definitely the wrong man. One of the knights, and he still looked enormous. Interesting, though; she'd never seen a man's naked back. She watched him breathe, watched the muscles so close under his skin move minutely and calmly, traced the jut of bone in his shoulders and the shallow line of his spine. She could probably count the freckles randomly dotting his skin…

Across the room, the door opened.

It was Estyr, her maid, in a fresh cap and apron, carrying a silver pitcher in both hands. Eyes on its contents – water, Sarra guessed – so she was two steps inside the room before she noticed him. Estyr gasped, eyes wide, and almost dropped the pitcher.

Sarra reacted without thinking, putting a finger to her lips. An urgent request for silence, that the sleeping man would not be disturbed.

Estyr closed her mouth. After a moment, the maid moved toward the side table – blinking distastefully at the tumbled boots and discarded mail. She grimaced outright, but made no sound, setting down the pitcher she'd brought, and gingerly picking up the basin. Sarra remembered the sound of vomiting, and pitied Estyr the chore of cleaning; her maid only rearranged her face into blank impassivity, and bobbed a smooth curtsy without meeting Sarra's eyes. A moment later, the door clicked shut behind her.

The sound seemed to penetrate the man's sleep. He grunted, and Sarra discovered she did not want to meet him lying down, after all. Slipping out from between the covers, she retrieved her over-robe and shoved the curtain behind its hook on the wall to let in the morning light, before creeping carefully around the other side of the bed.

His eyes were still closed, though there was a line between his brows, the same light brown as the hair-bristle on his head. His arm, on this side, lay palm-up, down along his side and hip – and there was a tiny pink scratch just below his thumb.

She recognized him, then, though he was horizontal and his face half-mashed into the sheet. It was the knight who'd helped her rescue the kitten in town, yesterday.

That made her smile, and sigh with relief.

Except that, he was waking up.

His face drew into a frown, and he pulled his arm up, as if to push his body away from the mattress. He lifted himself up only enough to turn his face the other direction – relaxed for a moment – then turned back, groaning aloud as he bent his near leg for his knee's help in separating his body from the bed.

He slurred a word – _someone's name?_ she thought. And went on, speaking slowly and half-incoherently.

"Feel like hell. Worst night… 'S there any water?"

One foot, then the other, tumbled over the side of the bed to the floor, and he pushed himself upright. She'd never seen a man's naked chest before, either, and felt herself blushing, before he rubbed one hand over his eyes to allow thumb and fingers to squeeze his temples.

 _Headache, probably_ , she sympathized. And fetched a silver goblet to pour half full of water for him.

" 'Re you even _there_ , Gwaine?" he whispered hoarsely, before she was through.

His whole body bent over, forehead propped on the back of his hand, that didn't help hold it up. She dared to approach him, holding out the cup.

"Here's water," she said, making sure to keep her voice quiet, out of consideration for his headache – and because she still wasn't sure what _let him do as he pleases_ entailed, and whether it still applied, if he was the wrong man.

But he didn't move, and she focused on the hand bracing himself on the edge of the mattress, moving the goblet closer.

"Here. It's just by your hand…" She brushed his hardened knuckles lightly, and his hand responded automatically, opening to allow his fingers to grasp.

She looked up to see that he'd raised his head, his eyes wide open, gazing at her. His mouth drooped slightly in bewilderment and shock.

"Who –" he said. "Where –" And ignored the water she'd given him to stare about the room. "This isn't my chamber," he concluded hoarsely.

"No," she said. "It's mine."

He gaped at her another long moment, seeming almost amusingly childlike in his incomprehension. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lady Sarra," she said. "I'm the granddaughter of –"

He didn't seem to be listening to her answer. His eyes roved the room again, lingering on her jacket over a chair, one side of the wardrobe open to show the gowns that had been packed for this trip by her maid. When he'd twisted all the way around, his glance fell last upon the bed behind him, the sheets mussed by her last night's sleep – he startled so badly he was on his feet before he was steady.

"What – " he said, gesturing at the bed with the goblet. "What… did… we – what did I –"

"Nothing," she said immediately, though she wasn't sure why. He'd gone as white as the sheets, as if afraid he might have rolled over and crushed her while they were asleep. "It's all right. I'm all right. You slept very hard – were you ill?"

"Was I…"

He trailed off, focusing on the goblet in his hand, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. Then dashed it down on the side table so suddenly and hurriedly it slopped over his hand – but that was forgotten in an instant also, as he seemed to realize his state of undress.

"Oh! My lady, I…" He swooped down on a rust-red garment, a sort of long-waisted jacket without sleeves.

Instinctively she backed a step – he was very large and very fast – but he concentrated on his buttons, awkward and crooked. Then his boots, one after the other, hopping a bit in a way that might have been amusing at another time.

Then, gathering up his tunic, chainmail and sword-belt in his hands, "I offer the profoundest apologies for my offense, Lady Sarra. Please believe it was an honest mistake, and if I…" He glanced her over quickly, before dropping his gaze and flushing. "I'm so sorry. I must have frightened you very badly."

"Only at first," she admitted. "A little. But then you were asleep, and – you're not very scary when you're sleeping."

He didn't smile, but shook his head as if it still wasn't clear. "If I… woke you when I came in. Why didn't you scream, or… yell at me to get out?"

Sarra hesitated. She'd been told not to scream, so she hadn't. But was she supposed to tell him that?

"I'm sorry," he blurted again, before she could say anything. "This isn't your fault, it's mine. It's just… I don't… _do_ , this sort of thing, and… I can't imagine why it… happened."

He looked very like a little boy in his confusion; Sarra felt sorry for that, and his shock, and his headache, and took pity.

"Because you drank from the wrong cup," she told him.

He looked right at her, puzzlement beginning to clear because – he knew exactly what she was talking about.

But before either of them could say a single word more, the door slammed open, all the way into the wall, and two of her grandfather's knights stormed in. Behind them she glimpsed two more in Mercian blue.

Her knight reacted immediately, sidestepping in front of her and drawing three inches of the sword from the belt in his left fist.

"Sheathe that now!" the elder of her grandfather's knights, Sir Hectyr, ordered furiously, pointing, as the other tensed and laid hand to the hilt of his own weapon. "You're under arrest for the violation of Her Ladyship, Sarra the granddaughter of King Alined."

"Granddaughter?" her big knight said, and slid his sword back into the sheathe. "King Alined? Oh…"

He slumped slightly, and her grandfather's knights approached to take hold of his arms. One of the Mercian knights entered to seize his chainmail and sword out of his hands.

"Wait a moment," Sarra said, her pulse quickening at her own daring. "Where are you taking him?"

"Before the kings," Sir Hectyr told her, somewhat sharply.

"And Arthur also?" Sarra's knight asked.

Sir Hectyr nodded, and yanked his prisoner toward the door. Sarra hesitated, then picked up the skirts of her dressing gown and bed-robe to follow.

They were very rough with him, though she didn't see any sign that he resisted them, and no one spoke a word. She trotted behind her grandfather's knights and their prisoner, the two Mercians behind her in escort, aware and scared of the fact that several people saw them, along the way. Maybe not scared, exactly. More – nervous and embarrassed.

They came before the three kings in the small receiving chamber where the introductions had been made, the first day when they arrived. Though the party from Camelot had followed them by a significant enough amount of time, she had been excused to rest in her chamber.

So she knew right away the names of half the men in the room. There was their host King Bayard, and his son Prince Wolfrick, both looking thunderously displeased. Her grandfather, of course, looking livid in a way that made her want to turn and flee, back to the safety of her room and the bedcovers over her head. She didn't.

The other three men – the golden-haired king, the armorless sorcerer, and the loudest of their knights – turned immediately when they entered, king and sorcerer each expressionless in a stern sort of way. All three seemed to _see_ her in an instant, but the knight took two quick steps toward his restrained comrade.

Exclaiming, " _Per_ cival! What the _hell_!"

Percival was his name. She thought it was a nice name; it sounded noble and kind.

"It was as the maid said, my lord," Sir Hectyr reported, addressing Sarra's grandfather. "He was still in her chamber, yet only half-clothed."

"Sir Percival of Camelot," Bayard began, "you are hereby charged with the rape of the Lady –"

"She's a _child_ , Percival," the king of Camelot said, disappointment and disgust faint and bewildered, but present.

And the sorcerer, before his king was even done speaking, interrupted to ask, "What _happened_?"

Sir Percival dropped his head, mute before the accusation.

Sarra blurted, "It wasn't his fault!"

All the men's eyes on her at once was hugely intimidating. She lifted her chin – but had to cringe when her grandfather spat, "Silence!"

Which he broke himself, when the attention turned to him, with surprise that bordered on shock. Her grandfather rearranged his expression, like she'd seen him do lots of times, to smile at her like he hadn't meant the tone or order the way it sounded.

"I mean to say, what an awful ordeal this night must have been for you, my dear." King Alined stepped to her side, gripping her shoulders and kissing the hair at the center of her forehead. "Surely you wish to retire to your chamber til you recover as much as is possible, under the circumstances. We can talk later, when you feel ready-"

"I'm fine," she told him. Her instinct was to obey, but there was this mistake, the wrong man had come, and surely her grandfather's words meant he'd been worried about her. "He didn't hurt me at all. He didn't touch me."

"Be quiet and go to your room," her grandfather ordered, glaring because his back was to the rest of the men in the room; she fell back half a step. "You there, escort my granddaughter –"

"Wait one moment!" the golden-haired king interrupted, striding forward with one hand outstretched. "She said he didn't touch her."

"She's in shock!" her grandfather snarled, rounding on him.

Arthur, wasn't it, of Camelot. He didn't so much as flinch, turning to Bayard. "I'll not have my knight condemned on conjecture and coincidence, if there's a witness who can tell the truth of the matter."

"He was in my granddaughter's bedchamber all night – that is neither conjecture nor coincidence!" Alined protested to the king of Mercia, letting go of Sarra's shoulders. "I want him executed immediately!"

"No!" Sarra exclaimed, horrified. Her big knight darted her a curious glance, past the two who still held him in place.

"This is completely unlike Sir Percival," King Arthur argued. "I'm sure there must be some explanation."

"You mayn't speak to her – I won't allow it!" Alined declared.

King Arthur looked furious, and Sarra was glad he was not glaring at her. " _I_ won't allow my knight to face unearned punishment – and he will _absolutely not_ be executed!"

She exhaled in relief – and couldn't deny a flare of admiration for this king. Her grandfather would have rejected rather than championing a knight in disgrace.

"Peace, Your Majesties," Bayard demanded, scowling. "Let us not forget the reasons that brought us together here."

He paused for them to remember their diplomacy, and Sir Percival spoke quietly into the silence, directly to his king as if they were alone in the room. "I'm sorry, sire, please believe I was trying to avoid this."

"What do you mean," King Arthur said, still somewhat impatient. "Percival, how did this happen?"

Her knight cast her another sideways glance, his head still down. "I… I wish I could say, my lords."

Something wordless but significant passed between the young king and his sorcerer as they looked at each other, then the black-haired young man stepped to Sir Percival, caught between her grandfather's knights. He raised his head, startled, as the sorcerer seized his face in his hands. Sarra swallowed a gasp as the sorcerer's eyes glinted gold for a moment – before he released the big knight to study him another moment blue-eyed.

"Merlin?" King Arthur said.

That, Sarra thought, was a very good name for the young sorcerer.

"He's been enchanted," Merlin said, turning back to the two kings. Percival exhaled softly, shoulders slumping a degree in the grasp of his keepers. "It's only residual now, either not strong enough or not meant to last."

"Alined," Arthur growled. She noticed his hands were fists at his sides.

"Why do you aim your accusations at me?" Her grandfather snapped. "Yours is the only magic-user present, if there's an enchantment, it's his doing."

"That's preposterous," Arthur said coldly. "Why on earth would I have my sorcerer enchant my own knight to – to –" He gestured, as if at a loss to explain the purpose of the magic worked.

"Maybe he did it of his own accord," King Alined suggested.

"Merlin would never," Arthur retorted immediately.

Sarra noticed that both Sir Percival and the other knight – long dark hair, short beard – wore expressions of offense and protest, also.

"You cannot claim your knight is innocent of wrongdoing because magic was involved, and that your sorcerer is also innocent," Alined said. "It is either one or the other who is to blame."

"He was your servant while Uther was alive," Bayard said to Arthur. "Was he ever ill-treated? Perhaps he bears a long grudge."

" _No_ ," Arthur said adamantly. The dark-haired knight whose name she didn't know growled in the back of his throat like a wolf. Merlin was quiet, his eyes on his king.

"Can you be so certain," Prince Wolfrick said, with skepticism.

Sir Percival tipped his head, enough to meet Sarra's eyes, and there was a pleading look there. Sarra clasped her hands together over her heart; she didn't know what she could do to stop it, but kings arguing frightened her. Arthur did not turn on his sorcerer, either, did not place blame or threaten punishment for failings real or perceived. He trusted his men and was trying to protect them at his own expense, and it occurred to her, that they would do the same.

Holding her eyes, Percival said, slowly but clearly, "Because I drank from the wrong cup."

That silenced them all again. His king and his sorcerer looked at Percival.

Bayard said, "I beg your pardon?"

"There was a cup," Percival said softly. "Set at our table, and Merlin had nothing to do with it. I suspected that there might be something wrong…"

King Arthur swore, calmly and foully, that made her cheeks warm to hear; the sorcerer huffed a grim little chuckle. Bayard looked furious again.

"So I drank it," Percival went on. "It made me feel… ill, and wrong. I thought I'd reached my king's room – I didn't want to cause a scene…"

The golden-haired king nudged his sorcerer so hard he had to shift a step to keep his balance.

"So he was drunk, and mistook the room," Alined said loudly. "That still doesn't-"

"Enchanted, not drunk," Merlin interrupted. Sarra blinked at his temerity. Impressed, because – he was brave; he didn't cower or whimper but seized the attention of the kings. "How did you know, Percival? You said, the wrong cup. How did you know?"

* * *

 **A/N: The inspiration for this romance came from Tennyson's Merlin and Vivian, though it's Sir Sagramore that's accused of taking a too-young wife by force, and Merlin excuses the knight as having made a mistake similar to Percival's here (though without the deliberately roofied wine).**


	7. Sarra (2)

**Chapter 7: Sarra** (part 2)

" _How did you know, Percival?" Merlin questioned. "You said, the wrong cup. How did you know?"_

Percival didn't answer, but flicked a glance to Sarra; it looked involuntary, but she found both golden-haired king and dark Merlin studying her.

And Bayard, with a thoughtful speculation. "My lady, perhaps you could –"

A thick hand squeezed her upper arm too hard, and she was swung around into King Alined's fiercest scowl.

"Grandfather!" she cried out, startled and pained.

He released her immediately, and maybe because he hadn't intended to hurt her, or realized he could, and he was sorry. But the way he flinched, aware of the other kings, made her afraid he was still putting on an act for them. "You don't say a word," he growled. "You don't tell them a thing."

The pain in her arm throbbed in time with a sudden pain in her heart, and she didn't understand it. Because wasn't her grandfather, her king, always wise and just? Weren't his orders always for the right thing?

"You told me I would have to sacrifice for the good of our kingdom!" she said to him, backing a step away – it felt like the tight, hot sensation in her chest would ease to be a little distant from him. "You never said I would have to lie!"

"Shut up!" he hissed.

It felt like he'd slapped her.

"She's a child, and she doesn't know what she's saying," her grandfather insisted to King Bayard. Rounding back to her, he ordered, "Go to your room!"

"You said I wasn't a child anymore," she accused, not caring in the moment if she was behaving like one after all, embarrassing herself and him in front of the foreign men, royalty and nobility. "You said I was old enough to prove my loyalty."

"And I was wrong!" he flashed back at her.

Hot tears blurred the room, and she dashed them away with the heel of her hand.

King Arthur leaned sideways to Bayard. "Might I have a private word with the Lady?"

"Remain in the room," Bayard responded.

"No!" her grandfather nearly shouted, reaching for her again.

The dark-haired knight of Camelot stepped right in front of him, hand on the hilt of the sword in his belt, glowering effectively; King Alined swallowed, shrinking back.

The golden-haired king came around the back of his knight to her, and the sorcerer Merlin was at his elbow. She caught her breath, though both of them looked in control of their tempers, as if they were making an effort not to seem threatening to her.

"Think of Ally, sire," the sorcerer murmured, inexplicably.

His king appeared to ignore him, instead extending his hand to be offered Sarra's. "My name is Arthur, my lady."

She hesitantly allowed him her hand to kiss; his was big and hard, as most men's hands were, but his were gentle also. "Lady Sarra, Your Majesty."

"This is Merlin," Arthur continued, indicating his companion, and she nodded.

"Do you think you could step aside with us – just over here, not very far – and answer some questions?" The young sorcerer handed her a folded square of white cloth – fine, soft linen with lace around the edges that never came from one of his pockets.

She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob – magic that was quick and practical and caring. Imagine that. She dabbed at her eyes.

"Yes, my lords," she managed, following Merlin as King Arthur followed her - and wishing to be taller.

"Oh, I'm not a lord," Merlin told her with a funny little smile that made his eyes twinkle. "I'm not anything, really."

His king made a rude noise, but said nothing, so Sarra felt she should contradict, "But you are, you're a sorcerer. And from Camelot. That's important."

"To your grandfather?" the king guessed.

Sarra ducked her head, not wishing to betray her loyalty.

Merlin said, "What about you? Do you have magic, too? That was your enchantment, in Percival's drink?"

She shook her head. "It wasn't meant to be Percival's. And I don't have magic. I guess it was maybe, something Trickler gave my grandfather to bring here."

"Hm." Arthur's mouth twisted bitterly, but his eyes were thoughtful. "Who was it meant for? And what was it meant to do?"

"It was meant for your sorcerer, my lord," she told him, with a shy glance for the younger man, his dark brows lifted in surprise. She felt her cheeks warm. "I don't know what it was meant to do. I was only told –"

She hesitated. No, she didn't want to betray her loyalty, but… her grandfather never protected Trickler or any of his knights the way this king did, when things went wrong. It did not feel like King Alined was going to protect her, either. So maybe she should act and speak in a way that did not betray herself.

"It's all right," Merlin told her kindly, brushing his fingertips down her sleeve in a friendly, supportive way that somehow seemed to give her courage.

"I was told, neither to scream nor to fight. But only, when you came to my room in the night after the feast, to allow you to do what you pleased."

Merlin gave her a puzzled frown. King Arthur, however, repeated his earlier oath with distinct revulsion and swung round to face the other men. Something about his realization seemed to trigger comprehension in his sorcerer; Merlin's expression shifted into one of abject horror.

But only briefly, til he smiled at her deliberately – though with dismay still lurking in his eyes. "And did you have – any idea… what it was that I might've done?"

Vaguely. Something that she might have screamed at, or fought against. "Something magic?" she guessed. "Dangerous, or scary? And then you'd be in trouble…"

"And then he could demand your head," King Arthur said, with a cold sort of wrath that she was glad was not directed at her. "Or… any other part of you."

Merlin paled, and swallowed.

Arthur lifted his voice and said, "Alined, you utter swine. You absolute bastard. You'd use _your own granddaughter_ so, to attempt to steal magic away from Camelot?"

He strode to rejoin the other kings. Sarra took one step to follow, but Merlin's hand – soft and light on her shoulder – stopped her.

"Let's just stand here," he suggested. "While they talk. Are you all right? You must have been so frightened, last night."

"I still am," she admitted, watching Arthur shove her grandfather's knights away from Sir Percival – then grab his forearm to speak to him seriously and low. "I thought I was old enough to be brave, and loyal, but –"

"You have been," Merlin said, and something unexpectedly earnest in his voice and manner soothed her – and made her want to cry, all at once. He wasn't – none of them were – what she'd expected. "You've been so brave. And loyalty to what is right and true is the most important loyalty of all."

She wasn't convinced, but watching the golden-haired king sling an arm around Sir Percival's broad shoulders to clasp him in a quick hard embrace, she was glad after all that he wasn't going to get in trouble.

King Arthur turned to speak to Bayard and Wolfrick – and it was only a moment before the Mercian king, with similar obvious disgust, was signaling his two knights to flank her grandfather as if he was to be placed under arrest – shock and concern were forgotten in the expression Sir Percival turned on her.

He looked like he'd been told he'd almost killed her in her sleep. Ten times worse than when he'd realized he was seated half-naked on her bed in her chamber.

Tears filled her eyes to have been part of doing this to him, and she shook her head. "It's all right," she whispered, though he was too far to hear her; she wouldn't raise her voice to interrupt the kings. "I'm sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Neither did you, my lady," Merlin responded – not as though he thought she had been speaking to him. "But far too often, the consequences of evil deeds fall on the innocent."

She looked up at him wonderingly. His jaw was set, brows down and eyes dark as he watched the men.

"You have every right to seek reparations, Arthur," Bayard was saying. "I myself am inclined to consider alliances void if they were based on deceit and treachery and manipulation, and reject any attempts he makes in the future…"

Beside her, Merlin made a noise of protest and regret.

"But he is correct in claiming what is owed to the young lady in question, also. Female reputations so damaged cannot be restored, and she is of noble birth."

Sarra let her head drop, and stared at the toes of her silk bedroom slippers, willing any more tears to stay right where they were, and not to fall. Sacrifice and nobility, she thought. And now she'd have the reputation of a traitor for speaking the truth. It was her fault that her kingdom would not have Mercia or Camelot for allies – and Merlin the sorcerer would remain with King Arthur to strengthen _his_ kingdom, while her own… crumbled, maybe? She wasn't sure what the consequences would be, but all those people in her castle and on the lands around, those were the innocents who would suffer.

She swayed, feeling a bit faint, a bit sick because her stomach was so empty; she'd been too worried to eat much yesterday.

But in the single blink of an eye, Sir Percival was kneeling before her, his sleeveless under-jacket still gaping where he hadn't buttoned it properly, her hand swallowed up in both of his. Also hard and callused, and also gentle.

"My lady Sarra," he said. "I am twenty-three years old, and I have never loved a woman. My father was a stonemason in the village of Wealworc. He and my mother and my two younger brothers were killed when our village was destroyed by raiders. I have been a knight of Camelot less than a year, and I cannot offer you more than this. But if I am acceptable to you, I am willing and happy to enter a betrothal. With you, that is."

She stared at him, astonished. Beside her, Merlin sighed – a sound of both regret and pride.

Elsewhere in the room, someone – Prince Wolfrick? – said, "If she isn't already betrothed to another."

Sarra wasn't betrothed, though she knew it wasn't uncommon for very young children, especially among the nobility, to be promised to wed one another someday. It was one of the very few things bequeathed to her by her father – an ordinary knight who'd caught the fancy of her mother, the princess and younger sister of Sarra's uncle, the crown prince and heir of King Alined. The right of choice, in her own marriage, though her grandfather had never seemed happy about that.

"I… I don't," she stammered, looking up at the kings.

Bayard, Wolfrick, and Arthur approached her; the other knight of Camelot and the two in Mercian blue prevented her grandfather from moving from his place, though his disgust and fury was so plain, she wanted neither to look at him nor to be closer.

"It is the best solution, my lady, if it is agreeable to you," Bayard said, and she had the feeling that he was trying to be gentle through his unfamiliarity with her, and stiff sense of ceremony.

"You will not find a better man or a truer friend," Arthur told her, placing his hand on Percival's shoulder; his kindness was natural and comforting. "You need not be wed for many years – not til you're ready – and if at any time you change your mind, it shall be completely without consequences, as far as we can ensure that."

Truer friend. She looked into Percival's blue-gray eyes and felt like a bird, waking in the springtime to flutter feathers and take wing. A friend that would be hers, to listen to her when she needed it and maybe pay her attention without being asked, spend time with her just because he enjoyed her company, specially.

She'd waited all her life for such a person. She could wait a few more years.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, this betrothal is acceptable to me."

Sir Percival looked at her a moment longer – not ecstatically pleased, because he was not in love with her like she'd seen knights in love with ladies – but _content_. And she was satisfied with that.

Gently he bent his head and raised her hand to kiss the back of it, and she wasn't intimidated by him anymore. She'd decided to trust him, and believed that it had been the right choice; he wouldn't hurt her if he could help it, body or spirit. And ten years difference in their ages was not so very great as it could be, after all. She smiled up at him as he stood – and he kept her hand.

"Should a date be set now, or decided upon later?" Wolfrick said.

"I think," Arthur said deliberately, turning to the two Mercians, "we require our knight's betrothed to be guarded by one we trust – and that is, no one now in Alined's court."

Sarra opened her mouth to protest, her grandfather's knights were all noble, and perfectly trustworthy, but the look of thoughtfulness on Bayard's face made her suspect there was more being said than she understood, and she snapped her mouth closed again.

"I would agree with you," Bayard said. "Who would you send?"

"Percival, obviously." Wolfrick raised his eyebrows, and Sarra raised her hopes. Arthur added, "The situation is unusual enough as it is, it serves nobody if they each marry a stranger in five years' time."

"And none will guard her better," Merlin said softly, smiling at Sarra in a way that made her aware of how very big Percival's fingers were around hers.

She herself was thrilled at the prospect of the big knight's immediate relocation to her own castle. She wouldn't have to wait to make friends; she _couldn't_ wait to introduce him to the horses and the dogs and the falcons, show him the stream and the caves and the library – and maybe he could help her improve her archery? A little apprehension crept in, as she hoped he wouldn't grow bored or tired of her. Five years was a long time, after all. And would they then go to live in Camelot? Maybe that depended on whether her uncle or her grandfather was king.

"Sir Bors," King Arthur continued, "one of my senior knights. His home is very near the border, and his wife and family will appreciate a nearer station. And… Sir Kay."

"Oh, _good_ ," Merlin said immediately, though the significance of the name and title escaped Sarra.

"He will be _your_ protection," King Arthur told Sir Percival, who gave a deep nod that was almost a bow, and looked pleased. Which pleased Sarra; at least he was not reluctant or disappointed to be re-assigned so swiftly without warning. Which said quite a lot about him, too.

"You will sign our alliances," Bayard said to Alined; it sounded very like an order, to Sarra. "And you will obey them perfectly, or so help me I will annex your kingdom. Arthur's three knights will be part of your court, to see that our terms are kept –"

"And so help me, if anything untoward happens to any of them, _I_ will annex your kingdom," Arthur said evenly.

"And if you choose to pass the throne to your son, I pray he is a more reasonable and honorable king than you," Bayard concluded.

King Alined shrugged forcefully away from the two Mercian knights – who allowed it and didn't look offended or worried. King Arthur's long-haired knight did not look happy – but didn't say anything, either.

"After this morning's unpleasantness," King Bayard said, "let us take time for a late and private breakfast, some time to collect our thoughts, and reconvene after the noon meal. Agreed?"

"Agreed," King Arthur said.

Sarra's grandfather growled as if it chafed him to be told what to do.

But the mention of breakfast reminded her that she hadn't had any – nor yet dinner last night, or very much for yesterday's other meals. The strength of tension and worry deserted her; her vision went blurry around the edges and her knees gave out. She heard Merlin say, "Whoa!"

But the arms that caught her up were enormously muscled, rock-hard and gentle, and she blinked without surprise at Sir Percival's square jaw and bristle-short hair.

"Shall I escort you back to your chamber, my lady?" he said, his voice deep and soft, with a note of humor that made her believe, she was forgiven for last night and this morning.

"I'll send a couple of my own maids to see to her comfort," King Bayard offered.

"When you're free, Percival, attend on me in my quarters," his golden-haired king ordered.

Her knight nodded, and Sarra's head spun to think, soon enough that would be her king also. She had the feeling Arthur was one to be proud of serving – and he'd never ask her to sacrifice her reputation, or lie. She felt like weeping with regret and disappointment, that she could not feel proud of her grandfather, perhaps trying to do what was best for the kingdom, but choosing means that were somehow less than honorable, that much she understood.

"I'll go with them," Merlin volunteered.

Sarra was happy with that, too, as no one objected; she let her head rest on Percival's shoulder as he moved to carry her from the room.

She felt lighter, to be gone from there, and tired now, too – but safe in a way she wasn't sure she had been since the deaths of her family. There was someone who cared for her and would look after her, and not just because it was their duty.

"Are you all right, my lady?" the sorcerer said.

She opened her eyes to see him duck to meet her gaze below Percival's square chin, as they walked the corridor. That wasn't duty asking, either, but genuine concern – Camelot must be a place well worth visiting, and maybe she would be happy living there, eventually. But footsteps behind them caught her attention, and she lifted herself in Percival's arms to peek over his shoulder at her grandfather's elder knight, Sir Hectyr, also escorting them.

Relaxing back, she sighed. "Only tired."

"And you, Percival?" Merlin said, sounding wryly amused.

He sighed as well, a great lungful of air that rocked her whole body in his arms as she rested against his chest. "This is – unexpected. But not… unwelcome, and if it helps Arthur keep the peace with Camelot's neighbors, then I'm glad to do my part. And – if you'll forgive me, my lady – it does seem like she needs someone to keep an eye out for her."

"The silver lining," Merlin said, and gave Sarra another smile that crinkled the skin by his eyes in an infectious way. "You are very fortunate that it was not I who drank that cup."

"Mm," Percival grunted. "Then it would have been war."

"At the very least," Merlin agreed cheerfully.

Sarra found that she enjoyed the free and easy way they spoke, as friends; the knight seemed to have no reservations trusting the sorcerer – who seemed genuinely to like the knight.

"If I'm not going to continue with you on this journey…" Percival hesitated.

"We'll visit in the spring," Merlin promised immediately. "And if Alined won't let you come for Lancelot and Ally's wedding, he surely will for Arthur and Gwen's."

"The king is betrothed?" Sarra said sleepily; that was gossip she hadn't heard yet. The other names weren't familiar either, but they sounded like people she'd like to know. Different than the cold, proper, patronizing ladies and daughters of her grandfather's court.

"Almost."

She liked the way Merlin's eyes twinkled. It made her wish she had a brother, but on the whole, she was glad Sir Percival was the one returning to her home with her as her betrothed. The way Merlin and Arthur spoke and acted, she had a feeling that separating them would not bring about anything good. And, Percival voluntarily rescued kittens from naughty street boys.

"What about you, though?" Percival said more seriously, shifting her weight slightly to climb a stair. Merlin didn't answer right away, watching the placement of his feet. "Have you made your decision? You said it might depend on…"

He glanced down at her, and she decided she was too tired to try to follow their conversation if she didn't know what they were talking about; she closed her eyes and let herself drift.

"If Alined hadn't demanded my execution, it would be my betrothal – or a lifetime servitude, maybe," Merlin said. "I mean, that must have been the goal – though you and I know that Arthur would never let that happen. And I couldn't leave Camelot – but to be the cause of Arthur going to war…" He trailed off. "I have the feeling, if I say yes to Nemeth, things like this won't happen. If I was already promised to marry another, and the potential for offending Nemeth was distinct…"

"I hope you can be happy, whatever you decide," Percival said seriously, and Sarra loved the way his voice rumbled in his chest with her ear pressed against it.

"You, too, my friend."

Maybe they didn't speak again, or maybe she did doze off for a few moments, but she opened her eyes when her body swung free of Percival's as he bent to lay her in her bed. It felt twice as comfortable as it had last night; she turned her head on the pillow to see Sir Hectyr and Merlin in low conversation at the door.

"Rest easy, my lady," her big knight told her, with a smile that seemed a bit sad, after all.

"Thank you, Sir Percival," she said, resolving that he wouldn't regret offering her betrothal, if she could help it.

"If we are to be wed someday," he said, "perhaps you could leave off the title."

"Oh, but –" she began to protest.

"That would honor me, rather than otherwise," he added.

She remembered his father had been a commoner, and that he'd grown up in a peasant village. Oh, he was going to be interesting to get to know. Nobility without arrogance. "Then, you might call me Sarra," she offered, "if we are to be friends."

This time, his smile chased the sadness from his eyes. "I will look forward to that. Sarra."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The courtyard was a blur of activity that morning. Her grandfather did not wish to stay, she was informed by Estyr her maid, who had orders to have her up and ready, packed and fed.

She worried just a bit that King Alined might try to leave without the three knights of Camelot that had been imposed on them by Bayard and Arthur, as her grandfather's punishment for the attempt he made upon Camelot's magic. She wondered if maybe Trickler was also going to be punished for the failure of the plan.

But evidently King Arthur's party was leaving this morning also. It wasn't hard to pick out Sir Percival amidst the crimson-caped knights, though she lost Sirs Bors and Kay within moments of their introduction. Probably she'd get to know them better on the trip, and in the weeks and months to come.

Sir Hectyr approached her, where she stood out of the way of the men and horses, on the lowest step of a stair that led to the top of the outer walls of Tamwyrth castle.

"Your grandfather is on his way, my lady," the older knight said, with a proper bow.

Sarra nodded – and jumped as Sir Percival appeared suddenly beside her, silent but attentive to Sir Hectyr. As he stood on the ground beside the stairs, her head came up to his shoulder; he looked younger from here, and not quite so big. Sir Hectyr acknowledged him with a slight inclination of his head.

"I don't believe the king's farewell will be prolonged," Sir Hectyr added mildly. "And he will ride out immediately. Therefore, Lady Sarra, do you and your knights make ready to join us."

"The lady's horse is saddled, I saw to it myself," Percival answered, in the same formal tone.

Sarra guessed that the three strangers – but Percival especially – would be trying to get to know her grandfather's knights, opinions forming both ways. Friendships also, she hoped.

"That is kind of you, and much appreciated," Sir Hectyr said, with a hint of relief, and apology that she didn't understand.

Percival shifted his weight slightly. "Sometimes it is better, faster and easier, to do something yourself, than to wait on a servant and hope he does a good job."

Sarra couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a smile on the dour old knight's face, and it was gone so fast she wondered if she'd actually seen it this time, either.

"That is so," he said. "Maybe a noble would profit from the exercise of such practical knowledge – and many a commoner could not be taught the natural nobility of King Arthur's knights."

Percival returned the respectful nod, and Sir Hectyr moved away again, among the gray-blue tunics of her grandfather's retinue.

"That means he likes you," Sarra said to Percival. It felt a bit odd when he looked at her, knowing that this man, still an almost-stranger, would one day be her husband. "Oh, I do hope you like my home. The castle, and the people…"

"If he doesn't," a voice interrupted, "you two can run away to Camelot." She turned in astonishment to a mischievous grin under the short beard of Camelot's most boisterous knight. "And you, my lady, will definitely like it there."

"This is Gwaine," Percival said to her, and she remembered that his was the name Percival had spoken when he first woke in her chamber. A close friend, then. "Don't be alarmed by him, he's really quite gentle and sweet."

Sarra recognized the jibe, and snickered as the other knight rolled his eyes. It was surprising still to her, the relationship the knights of Camelot seemed to have, that they weren't stiff and formal and defensive with each other. Too concerned with honor to be genuinely _nice_.

" _If_ that is true to _any_ degree," Gwaine responded, poking a finger in Percival's chainmail-covered chest, "it is _only_ because I've been spending too much time with Merlin. Speaking of whom, tell him you forgive him. He's got himself convinced he should have realized, about that cup of wine."

Sarra felt heat rise to her face, and the need to say, "I'm sorry about –"

Percival took her hand with a little frown, and Gwaine said easily, "Nah. If anyone should've, it should've been me. Acknowledged expert on wine, mead, ale –"

"No one will argue with that." It was the black-haired sorcerer Merlin, dressed simply but in cloth finer than that afforded to any servant, though without the ornamentation usually affected by the nobility, or any weapon or armor that distinguished the knights. "Gwaine, Arthur wants you at the stable."

"Did you tell him to hold his horses?" Gwaine joked audaciously.

Sarra was a little shocked at the liberties he so blithely took, but evidently this was both characteristic and tolerated. Gwaine reached his arms around Percival to slap his back heartily, and Percival returned the embrace without hesitation.

"Don't do anything that I would do," Gwaine told him.

"Never," Percival returned. "We'll see you, sooner rather than later."

"My lady." Gwaine twinkled a grin over her hand, and she felt warm inside to be so included.

"I made you these," Merlin said, as Sir Gwaine loped away. He held out a small leather pouch that clinked like it contained coin – only not quite.

Percival pulled the mouth of the little bag open to look inside. "You _made_ these?"

"Well, not actually. I meant I spelled them, for protection." The sorcerer gave her an embarrassed-apologetic grimace. "I'm sorry, I don't trust your grandfather's sorcerer."

Or her grandfather, she thought ruefully, but it was nice of him not to say. "That's all right. I don't trust Trickler either."

His dark brows rose fractionally, and his smile quirked.

Percival said, "Cloak pins, good choice. But there are four?"

"One is for Lady Sarra," Merlin told him – and she supposed her astonishment showed on her face. "Well, you're one of us, now, my lady. I want to make sure you're safe, too."

"That's…" She had to wink away a tear, and clear her throat. "That's very nice of you." Almost amazingly nice, especially after the plot against him, that she'd been a part of.

Perhaps Percival caught something of what Sarra was thinking, or maybe he'd been looking for an opportunity to follow his friend Sir Gwaine's suggestion. Her big knight said, "Merlin, about that other night, and me drinking the cup that was meant for you…"

"I'm sorry about that," Merlin interrupted. "When I was enchanted, you… took such good care of me, making sure I was protected and taken care of –"

"You'd have done it for me," Percival said quickly.

Sarra hoped this was going to be a story he'd tell her – a sorcerer enchanted? – but her knight seemed embarrassed to be thanked.

"That's just it, though, I didn't," Merlin said, and she thought that earnest openness was characteristic of him. "It's a consequence of not hiding anymore, I suppose, that sometimes I'm going to be the target of an attack, rather than –"

"And that's my fault."

Sarra immediately spread her skirts in a curtsy, though Percival and Merlin only turned to admit King Arthur joining them. A silver ring winked sunlight from the hand he extended to lift her up.

"Please don't, that's really not necessary," he said to her. "Are you all right this morning?"

"Yes thank you, Your Majesty," she said, a bit breathlessly. "I slept better last night than the night… um, before, and…" Her face warmed again and she fumbled to a stop in confusion, not wishing to give offense. Percival's face was a bit pinker than normal, she saw with dismay. "It _really_ , wasn't your fault."

"It was, in part." Percival said to his king and the sorcerer, "I thought later, I could have just, poured it out on the ground or something."

The king snorted, turning his sarcasm on Merlin. "What a wonderful idea. And why didn't you think of that either, when it was you drinking poison in my place?"

Sarra's brows rose. Another intriguing story; she hoped Percival knew this one, too. Camelot sounded an adventuresome place.

"In that instance, it was your _cup_ that was poisoned," Merlin answered back, as if he and his king were equals. "Didn't matter what they put in it, pour out the wine and fill it with chicken soup, it still would have killed you if I hadn't –"

"Chicken soup?" Arthur said, his tone adding, _That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard._

"Sire," Percival said, interrupting Sarra's inclination to giggle, his breach of protocol both respectful and fearless. "King Alined is leading his party out."

"We won't delay you further, then," Arthur said, both of them immediately serious again. "Keep safe and well – one of Bors' sons can carry messages if you like. You've got Merlin's cloak-pins?"

"Yes." Percival turned to her, reaching big hands for her hips. "Jump, my lady." She did so, and he lifted her easily to the side-saddle of her mount, waiting just behind him.

"Have a pleasant trip," Merlin wished up to her, with another one of his twinkly-eyed big-brotherly smiles.

"You as well," she answered him, looking also at the golden-haired king. "Your Majesty."

He gave her a proper bow that thrilled as well as embarrassed her, and grabbed Percival's forearm in the grip of intimate comrades. "Take care of each other," he commanded, including Sarra with a glance.

"We will," Percival promised.

The king and the sorcerer stepped back, and Percival swung up into the saddle of his own mount, next to her. As they trotted out of the courtyard, she glanced back to see Merlin standing sideways to speak to the king, Arthur watching them leave. He lifted his hand to signal a final farewell, and Sarra waved back to him.

 _Take care of each other._

Percival gave her a smile as she faced forward, one young and one older knight wearing Camelot red falling in behind them, at the end of her grandfather's train. Sarra was glad to smile back, in the chill morning breeze and wan sunlight.

She'd never had anyone to take care of, before; she was quite looking forward to learning how.


	8. Elena

**Part III: Elena and Gwaine**

 **Chapter 8: Elena**

"Friend and allies," her father said genially, raising his voice to reach the guests at the far end of the lively, well-lit banquet hall.

He raised his cup as well, and Elena grabbed her own goblet so hastily she almost knocked it over.

"We welcome you gladly to Gawant, and hope your stay is both pleasurable and peaceful." Lord Godwyn turned to those who were seated alongside him at the high table. "We greatly anticipate the chance in the days to come, to relax and enjoy our august company, as well as to discuss matters of mutual interest to our kingdoms. Let us drink to peaceful progress in relations!"

Elena lifted her cup with everyone else, smiling and warm-faced as the guests – an extra dozen of Camelot's men in addition to their own knights and nobility – cheered the high table.

Seating himself, her father squeezed her shoulder gently – happily – through her yellow-gold gown, before turning to speak to King Arthur, seated beside him, and Merlin the sorcerer of Camelot at the end of the table. Which left Elena to sigh, and twist the other direction to share the toast with Lady Vivian. Who was everything she never would be – beautiful in a delicate and fragile way, bright and proper, vivacious and outgoing.

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad we came!" Vivian gushed, grabbing the hand of her husband seated next to her without looking. "Father thinks we're inspecting our western borders, but this is _far_ more exciting!"

Something she'd already told Elena twice since their arrival yesterday.

"He doesn't want anything to do with magic – nor much with Camelot, to be honest," Vivian leaned closer to murmur, with a brief widening of her eyes like it was a scandal. "He doesn't want things to change, but that's hardly practical, is it? So Balan and I –" she squirmed toward the pleasant-faced, brown-haired lord at her side – "decided to take this chance to meet the sorcerer and assure Arthur, we're quite open to learning more about magic. My father is stubborn enough to live forever, but –" Vivian shrugged lightly.

"Yes," Elena said – and then found herself at a loss for words. Her father was the dearest person in the world to her; she couldn't imagine discussing his eventual demise with such flippancy. "It's… fortunate that you –"

"Oh, _isn't_ it!" Vivian gushed. Elena was not quite sure what she'd been about to say, herself, it was astonishing how the petite blonde seemed to know. "And it's such a strange story, too! You see, Father had decided that if I was safely wed, then he wouldn't have to worry about my honor – or my ridiculous insistence that I was meant for Arthur. That would be the concern of my new husband. Well, he'd chosen his best knight, Sir _Balin_ , and –"

Elena sighed again, taking as large a swallow of her wine as she could manage. This was also a story Vivian had told more than once, in Elena's hearing. Betrothed to the elder of twin knights, she'd mistakenly kissed the younger and – wonder of wonders – fallen headlong in love. Which he, of course, didn't mind a bit, why would he? His wife was… everything Elena was not. She gathered that the elder twin didn't mind either, passing on the responsibility of keeping the king's daughter happy to his brother.

"I'm so sorry," she said, interrupting Vivian's description of that first kiss with her husband, the then-mistaken younger twin. "I've got to check on something I just remembered I forgot…"

Vivian was too surprised to object, and Balan too well-mannered. Elena excused herself softly in her father's ear; he smiled and lifted a hand in generously-granted permission, too used to indulging Elena's eccentricities to interrupt his conversation with King Arthur. The king of Camelot had turned away momentarily, and didn't notice her rise; the sorcerer beyond him, watchful dark-haired Merlin, met her eyes with a concerned look, but she smiled to reassure him, and he neither rose nor spoke to detain her.

Elena made her way to a side door, down a corridor, through a door to the garden's viewing-gallery. It was too dark to see much but the gallery itself, dimly, and the brilliance of the stars in the sky.

She took a deep breath of the frosty air, and slipped off her shoes, heading barefoot down the four steps to the gallery. It felt good after the smoke and close heat of the banquet hall, and they wouldn't miss her for a few minutes. There were guards stationed about her father's palace within earshot, should she need anything, for convenience more than protection. Gawant was small, and had long-standing ties with Camelot. They hadn't been seriously threatened since Elena could remember.

Up the corridor behind her, she could hear the footfall and clothing-rustle of someone else and cringed, wondering if she'd been followed specifically, or if she could hope to be overlooked and passed by –

The subtle sounds were interrupted by a louder clatter and a couple of thumps, someone coming down the few steps to the gallery more precipitously than expected.

"Dammit, what the –" an unfamiliar man's voice cursed softly. Then followed an incredulous silence with the single query, " _Shoes_?"

Oh, dear. Elena curled her toes, watching the man's shadowy figure bend, then hold out her silk slippers to examine them in the faint moonlight.

"I'm so sorry," she said aloud, and he spun to face her. "Those are mine."

"Did you lose them, my lady," he said, "or were they discarded voluntarily?" His voice carried an amusement that reassured her rather than shaming her – he was neither offended nor taken aback by her impropriety.

"Discarded voluntarily," she sighed, as he approached, and offered them to her with a little bow. In the faint light she could see that his hair was dark and longish, that his chin and jaw were bearded, but little else.

"Why, if I may ask?" he said. "I'm sure they're beautiful."

She accepted them, and set them on the open ledge that overlooked the darkened garden. "They are lovely, but they pinch something awful. They're absolute murder to walk in."

Too late she realized, that was probably inappropriate to say to a man, and a stranger.

"Well, I complain about our capes every chance I get," he said easily. "But they don't actually hurt, so you have me there. And, if I'd had about half a glass more of wine, I'd be gallantly offering you my footwear for replacement. Or at least joining you in rejecting them entirely."

She wasn't sure whether to take him seriously or not, but what he said and how he said it struck her as funny, and an involuntary giggle was followed by an unladylike snort – which she covered belatedly and with consternation.

It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. "But," he continued in the same jesting tone, "I'm sure that taking off my boots would inevitably – and swiftly – deprive me of your fair company."

"Are you saying that your feet smell?" she said, in teasing disbelief.

"Not if you ask _me_ ," he reassured her facetiously. "But don't ask anyone else who knows me."

She couldn't fight the grin, and didn't try to; it was too dark for him to see if it wasn't a ladylike expression – and too late for her to pretend to be ladylike, anyway. "So who knows you, then, Sir Knight, that I might remember not to mention the topic of foot odor?"

He chuckled, a warm, likable sound. "Any of the boys from Camelot," he said, leaning sideways on the low wall that overlooked the garden. "Which reminds me. One of my friends at the high table noticed your departure, and asked me if I'd come see that you were all right."

She didn't think that Arthur had noticed, which left his sorcerer. She'd only just met him earlier today, at the formal introductions, but she understood he'd been close to Arthur for years, and he'd have good reason to be alert to his surroundings and the people in them. But hopefully he hadn't immediately jumped up and whispered to the nearest knight, to send him racing after the princess and followed by more gossip.

"Asked?" she said.

"He grimaced, and nodded. I knew what he meant."

Interesting that he seemed good friends with the mysterious sorcerer. "I'm all right," Elena told him, and was surprised to find it was true. Maybe there was something about being outrageous in the dark; she was sure she'd be too mortified to attempt a conversation like this in daylight. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The unknown knight hummed a neutral non-answer. "I don't wish to offend you, but there are those who wonder if your… last visit to Camelot went… as smoothly as it seemed."

"What, do you mean because Prince – that is, because King Arthur and I were meant to wed, and decided not to?" She wasn't offended; many of the knights of both Camelot and Gawant had been present when Arthur made his announcement, and it would have been an issue of sufficient importance that he might have discussed it with his secret sorcerer.

"Hm. No. Because… the betrothal was not all you lost, in Camelot?"

"Oh, do you mean Grunhilda." Her father had asked Uther to look into her nursemaid's disappearance; no surprise that it was known, also. "Did they ever find out what became of her?"

He didn't answer, saying obliquely – and smoothly – "Do you miss her very much? You two were quite close?"

Since he was a stranger, and they were being unusually honest, Elena admitted, "I'm not sure. She was with me a very long time, and took very good care of me, after my mother died, but… She was very strange. Since she's been gone, I feel… like I've finally been allowed to grow up?"

Her maidservant since the spring, Grunhilda's replacement, was a girl named Veramay, younger than Elena and inclined to timidity. It was a completely different relationship experience for Elena, to be the elder and the one making decisions. Sometimes scary – but all the time good.

"You feel free?" he ventured softly, and she smiled with relief at being understood.

"Yes. Is it awful? I should feel worried, still, shouldn't I? I think sometimes, perhaps she found a special gentleman like she never did here – but in that case, why would she not simply write to me?"

He made a noncommittal sound, leaning on his elbows over the low wall. A light breeze touched her with cold fingers and she rubbed her hands over the thin sleeves of her delicate dress.

"I shouldn't keep you," she observed. "Now that you know I'm fine, and – not lonely, you should –"

He grunted like it was ironic for her to say that. "Are you too cold? You'd like to go back inside?"

"No, it feels good," she said honestly. "I only thought, your friends might wonder…"

"My friends," he said. "No, I doubt they'd wonder about me."

She drifted two steps closer, and leaned on the wall also; the stones still held some warmth from the afternoon sun. "Why do you say it like that?"

He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Of my… call it seven closest friends. One was betrothed just before we left Camelot. One we parted with when we left Mercia, because he was betrothed to a young lady we met there. Arthur's counting down the days his lady is making him wait til he can ask her –" Elena giggle-snorted at the idea, and liked the unknown lady instantly. "And Merlin's just about decided to accept the princess Nemeth offered."

Nemeth was a good place for a magic-user to look for a spouse, Elena knew that much. "All your friends are getting married," she said, half amused and half sympathetic. "But not you? No girl has caught your eye?"

"I will never wed," he declared wryly. "My past is – somewhat less than noble. Arthur did me a favor but took something of a chance when he knighted me this spring. But it leaves me a bit in the middle when it comes to the ladies – I'm nowhere near good enough for a noble wife, but it would take a one-in-a-thousand common girl to match with me for life. And – I must have had a bit more wine than I thought, to have told you all that." His eyes and his teeth gleamed as he turned to smile at her in the moonlight.

Elena smiled back, commiserating though he wouldn't know that, and she wouldn't say. Any number of men would enter a union with her willingly – she was a princess - and she wasn't against that on principle, no matter what Arthur said about love. But he was actually the only man she'd ever met who treated her like a person, and even he'd felt a bit awkward with her awkwardness. She didn't want to be stuck with someone who was sorry he'd married her. Someone who'd make her _feel_ foolish and awkward.

She opened her mouth to say something like, _Don't give up hope_ , when another pair of boots and the rattle of armor sounded at the other end of the gallery, and flickering golden torchlight spilled over them, and the stone. She squinted at the guardsman carrying it, and saw with mild surprise that he'd taken his helmet off. He looked young, round-faced and earnest.

"Excuse me, Your Highness," he said, approaching them. "I don't mean to interrupt, but –"

Elena straightened from the low wall, sensing the knight behind her do the same. Her surprise increased when he spoke a name in a tone of delighted astonishment.

" _Gilli_?"

"Yes, I –" the guardsman answered the knight, but bowed to her. "Thought we might talk a bit? I'm just off-duty, Your Highness, I noticed my friend here from Camelot but couldn't say anything before…"

"Yes, of course," Elena said, making an effort to remember his name and face. It was probably a very interesting story, how her guardsman was acquainted with a new knight of Camelot, and one who was friends with the sorcerer, too. "I'll just go back in to the banquet, so there's no need for you to stay with me, or worry…"

As she spoke she put her shoes on the ground and lifted her skirt to step into them. Wavered, and would have lost her balance – and twisted her ankle, according to her luck – but the knight caught her elbow and steadied her.

"If you're sure, Your Highness?"

"Yes," she repeated. "I –" And made the mistake of looking up right into his face, illumined now by the light of the guardsman's torch.

Oh, he was handsome. And yes, she could tell, a bit of a rogue. But there was kindness in his face, and humor that was sadly lacking in most princes and lords' sons who stiffly ignored her quirks, rather than acknowledging them and laughing about them. She thought instantly that she would love to be friends with this knight; he seemed _fun_.

"I'm sure Lady Vivian will want to repeat her story about her betrothal again tonight," she told him, feeling comfortable enough to smile. "Therefore, I would advise you, take your time with your friend."

He grinned, all twinkly dark eyes and white teeth in his black beard. "I will owe you, then, for facing this foe in my stead," he joked. "If you're sure…?"

"Here I go," she sighed, heading less-than-gracefully for the stair that led to the banquet hall. "Wish me luck."

As she gathered her skirt out of her way to attempt the first step, she heard him say behind her, as if he truly meant it, " _Best_ of luck to you. My lady."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The rest of the banquet had been surprisingly pleasant. Arthur's sorcerer had again looked immediately to her with concern, which she appreciated. More than that, she appreciated that a smile and nod was enough to reassure him. He was perceptive, evidently, but not – so she thought – in a way that was cunning or conniving. Whatever he intuited, wouldn't be used against her.

Vivian was tolerable – she felt a little guilty over her attitude toward a guest and a friend – and partly because Elena knew she'd sleep til noon the next morning. And because Elena was only expected to entertain female guests, after a private breakfast in her room, she was free to pass through the garden on her way to the kennels.

It was a brisk morning, as the sun had not yet risen above the rest of the palace; she was surprised to see that the garden was not unoccupied. A trio of… yes, all of them were men, they were too far, she didn't recognize if they wore colors – either theirs or Camelot's or the dark blue of Vivian and Balan's escort. She kept them in the corner of her eye as she walked the crushed-stone path past ever-green shrubbery and the dry-stick rosebushes.

Two were in mail. The third, seated on one of the few benches scattered around the area for visitors' convenience, was dressed in nondescript blue and brown. She noticed when they noticed and recognized her; the two standing turned – but none hailed her immediately. They were perhaps thinking as she did, not to interrupt a desired solitude – and then she recognized them.

One, at least – as the seated man stood out of deference for her presence, even if they let her pass without speaking. The black-haired sorcerer of Camelot.

Elena tripped to an uncertain halt, wondering why he was not in conference with her father and King Arthur and Vivian's husband; she thought Balan had been invited as well - though his appearance was unexpected – as Olaf's son-in-law.

The taller – older – man in armor had longish dark hair and beard-scruff covering his chin. Elena suspected it might be her new friend from the previous night – what was his name? had he introduced himself? since the other, younger-looking one in mail was the guardsman Gilli.

She took two steps toward them – right into a newly-fertilized bed of autumn bulbs. "Oh – ick."

"Good morning, Your Highness." An unfamiliar voice – the sorcerer then.

"Well, it was." She sighed, gesturing to her soiled boots, stepping carefully back to the path. Leaving footprints behind, and collecting pebbles from the path onto the soles and sides of her muddied boots.

"I can help you with that, Princess?" he suggested.

She risked a glance – but he seemed neither embarrassed for her, or ready to cover a snicker at her expense. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly ask you, you're a guest –"

He gave her a friendly, sympathetic grin that said, _it could happen to anyone_. "With magic, I meant? Just a –" He demonstrated a wave with a flair, and she inhaled sharply – but nothing happened.

"No, thank you," she said, relieved that he'd asked first. She was nearly certain that her father had mentioned a request to Arthur that his sorcerer, while free to practice in Camelot, would mind the letter of the law while in Gawant, at least to avoid incidents. But he seemed disappointed, so she hastened to add, "I don't mean to seem ungrateful, it's just that – my father, and the treaty, and this morning they're meant to be discussing –"

"If you won't let Merlin work his magic," said the knight, joining them. Gilli the guardsman, at his elbow, seemed uncertain of the protocol to follow in the situation, but the knight gave her a grin similar in feeling to the sorcerer's. "Perhaps I could take them and clean them at the pump?"

"Oh, really, no –" she began to protest.

"You can come and sit down," Merlin offered, "and he'll bring them back clean in just a moment – Gwaine has good practice in cleaning boots."

The knight snorted and elbowed the sorcerer – and Elena remembered that he'd said _my friend_. She supposed she might never have a better opportunity to speak to Merlin of Camelot, and she was curious about several different matters.

"Well, all right – if you're sure you don't mind?" She took one of the sorcerer's hands and one of the knight's, outstretched for her assistance, and hopped over the fertilized bed. The knight supported her elbow with his other hand to steady her balance.

"I'll help you, Gwaine," Gilli volunteered. "If that's all right, Your Highness."

"Really, it was my own fault," she said, clopping her way to the bench, collecting pebbles and weight as she went. "You shouldn't have to –"

"If we don't, it'll be your maidservant," Gilli ventured, hovering.

Merlin made a noise of disapproval, and the knight – Sir Gwaine, then – said immediately and cheerfully, "That can't happen. Come, Your Highness. We'll have them back in a moment, your feet won't even get cold."

She thudded down to the bench and tried to keep her skirt clear as she wiggled her feet out of her boots. Gilli accepted one with a polite nod – and a badly-hidden grimace for the odor of the fertilizer; he was quite young.

Gwaine said, with an audacious wink, "Hm, these look very _comfortable_."

She was speechless – he dared to _tease_? no one ever teased her, since Grunhilda - as he bowed. Gilli led him off toward the kennels, where there was a pump from the subterranean cisterns common to the stables also.

"I do apologize," she began again, finding her voice.

Merlin had blue eyes, and they twinkled as he smiled, clasping his hands behind him in a deferential posture somewhat at odds with his confident look. "The second day I knew Gwaine, he'd ordered several rounds of drinks for everyone in Camelot's best tavern, and he had no money. I offered to pay his bill, but had none myself. Arthur honored my offer – and made the two of us clean the boots for all the knights stationed in the citadel at the time."

"Oh, dear," Elena said involuntarily, and almost choked on the urge to giggle. Pleased, though, that he'd chosen to be honest and amusing, rather than stiff and proper.

"So you see," Merlin said, ducking his head slightly, with another humorous smile, "We are not men who need to stand on ceremony."

"Perhaps you'd better sit down, then," Elena invited, gesturing to the seat beside her. None of her father's knights were ever so familiar; she found she liked it.

"Thank you, Your Highness," he said, complying with her wish; she noticed that the material of shirt and trousers were fine, tight-knit wool, and his jacket was expertly made, of tanned leather that would probably be very soft to the touch.

"Sir Gwaine probably told you he spoke with me last night?" she began; Merlin nodded, perfectly at east with her supposition of their confidence. "Then allow me to offer congratulations on your betrothal?"

Merlin sighed, slouching a bit. "Upcoming betrothal," he corrected.

Elena tucked her gown around her feet to keep them warm in her stockings. "You're reluctant to wed the princess of Nemeth?" she asked curiously.

"I respect her," Merlin told her. "I might even like her, but… That's all it is. She can't possibly love me, and –"

"Why not?" Elena said.

He rolled his eyes – done without thinking, she was sure, and wasn't offended at all. It seemed Sir Gwaine and Merlin were cut from the same cloth as Arthur, and didn't mind her penchant for being inappropriate.

"And," he added, "It seems impossible to add in a… _wife_ , when I'm always so busy with Arthur and Gaius."

Her amusement over the way he said _wife_ was forgotten in his mention of the old man she remembered from her visit to Camelot, that spring. "Your physician," she said. "Oh, you must remember to thank him for me. He gave me the most wonderful restorative tonic after I had a nightmare…" Which reminded her of something else she wanted to ask him. "That was the last night I saw Grunhilda, actually – my nurse was missing when it was time for us to depart from Camelot, and we never heard anything… do you know what happened to her?"

"I…" He looked past her, vaguely toward the end of the garden. "I'm not sure if I'm able to comfort your worries, Your Highness…"

"Is she dead?" Elena blurted her worst fear.

He stiffened and his eyes widened, darting immediately back to her. It was almost as good as a _yes_.

"Oh, I was so afraid of that," she mourned – but it had been a year and a half ago, and the ache of the loss was distant. "Can you tell me what happened? Did she have magic, and did Uther somehow find out?"

"M- magic?" he gulped, even more startled.

"She was so strange," Elena explained, understanding and wanting to soothe his uneasiness at the mention of a shared ability that would have gotten him killed in his own kingdom, up til this year and Arthur's changes. An ability that was still illegal in Gawant, at least for a little while longer. "I suspected, though I never saw anything definite – I never _looked_ , you know, I didn't want her to get in trouble. She kept a little powder that she said was good for my nightmares, but she never actually put it in my food or drink. Of course I'd never tell my father – he had that treaty with Camelot, you see, and magic was – is – prohibited here, too."

"Ah," Merlin said, in a tone of great discovery. "Well. Yes, she had magic – of a sort. She _was_ discovered, and that _was_ the reason, for her… death."

"Oh." Elena slumped disconsolately. "I thought maybe, Uther would have executed her without a trial, and lied to my father to cover it up. I thought… maybe my father suspected, but it wasn't worth pressing the matter, especially after Grunhilda had been part of our household for years. A terrible scandal, and strained relations and – better that it didn't come out, maybe. But it's good to… know, finally."

"I'm so very sorry you lost your friend," Merlin said earnestly.

She shrugged loosely. "It's all right. She should've known to be more careful in Camelot. That was just after your own execution, I believe? Arthur mentioned – he was unhappy, though he tried to hide it, he's seemed in much better spirits this time…"

Merlin had dropped his eyes to his lap, and she noticed that the thumb and forefinger of his right hand lightly pinched the small finger on his left hand. Which was missing the last joint – and she had heard that part of the story, too. Oh, bother, she'd gone and offended him truly.

"I – I mean," she stammered, "we heard rumors. Uther told Father – but of course that was wrong, and after Arthur was crowned king, he sent a letter – but it wasn't very specific –"

"It's all right, Princess," Merlin repeated her own words to her – and the smile and twinkle were still there, though a bit sad. "It could've gone better – but it didn't – and it could've gone worse. But it didn't. Arthur's not his father, and he's done a lot to make sure people with magic are treated as fairly and equally as everyone else."

Elena made a skeptical noise – maybe a rude noise, but she wasn't worried anymore than he'd suddenly decide to take umbrage.

"That's what they're discussing this morning, isn't it?" Merlin added. "Arthur and your father and – Lord Balan the Lady Vivian's husband, I was _so_ pleased to meet him."

That sounded more genuine than Elena could've said it; Merlin seemed a very nice person. She was sure the princess of Nemeth would have no problem falling in love with this young man.

"My father never had strong feelings either for or against magic," Elena said. And too bad if it wasn't proper to be candid about the issue with someone from another kingdom, and a magic-user. "He agreed to the same laws banning it as Camelot had, but he wasn't terribly concerned that our people might hide and deny it, as long as the peace was kept. Now, of course, he wants to be sure you haven't tricked Arthur somehow."

"That's why I wasn't invited to the meeting," Merlin said, straightening slightly.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so – that does make sense, now that I think about it. My father also wanted to hear in detail how Arthur's addressed the problem legally, before he commits to doing the same. He's concerned there might be – resentment, maybe even violence? And he wants to be just without being unfair."

"That's – perfect, actually." Merlin gave her a brilliantly happy grin. "Well, I don't mind anyone making sure Arthur is acting on his own initiative, because that's the truth. It hasn't all changed smoothly or overnight, in Camelot – but it may very well be easier here in Gawant, if your father never was as harsh as Uther. You think your father will pardon those people who might have hidden and denied magic – servants, knights… lords?"

"I'm fairly sure our laws will change as Camelot's did," Elena told him. "And yes, I hope when that happens that our people will be brave and trusting. And then I can see some of _your_ magic, but til then, there are still the laws to be followed…"

"I understand," he said, and she saw by his eyes and smile that he did, truly. "Vivian was asking me, could I make butterflies like King Alined's sorcerer – and I was _so_ tempted…"

Elena laughed at the sarcasm in his tone; though she wasn't familiar with that king or his sorcerer, she did know Vivian.

"But now I'll have an official reason to decline. Oh, say –" his eyes lit with the enthusiasm of a new idea. "Why don't you and your father visit Camelot in the spring? I'll be hatching the dragon's egg, that'll be wonderful magic to see…"

"A dragon…" Elena hesitated.

"Just a little one." He approximated measurements with his hands; the size of a lapdog, then. He added persuasively, "A _baby_ one."

"Oh…" Babies were always sweet, and that was tempting, but of course her father must be consulted, and King Arthur might have something to say about his sorcerer issuing invitations on his own.

"Your Highness? Your boots, Your Highness." Gilli hurried toward them down the gravel path, holding her boots out, and the hilt of his sword against its inclination to clatter against his chainmail.

"I will think on it and hope for it," she told Merlin, before turning to receive her boots.

"Did you lose Gwaine?" Merlin said to Gilli. "Or accidently drown him under the pump?"

"No," Gilli said, averting his eyes as she tugged on her boots, one at a time - damp on the outside, but dry on the inside, and clean. "There was a new litter in the kennels?"

That was where Elena was headed; she stood and Merlin did as well. "Would you like to come see the pups?" she invited, and dared to tease, "They're little ones. _Baby_ ones."

Merlin laughed out loud and it was a surprisingly deep laugh, that made her smile also. "No, Your Highness, not this time. I wanted to talk to Gilli a bit more, and he has duty soon…"

He glanced at the guardsman for confirmation; Gilli's round face reddened, and he gave a nod that was almost a bow, to her.

"I will see you later, then," she said. "Good morning."

Their murmured responses carried with her on a distinct and unusual cloud of cheer. To like company well enough to relax – she couldn't remember that ever happening, not since she was a child too young to be expected to behave with propriety. Arthur had been very nice, but they'd been in his kingdom, and there were lots of strangers – Uther Pendragon – to see her make an idiot of herself. The people around here already knew that about her.

The whelping pen was indeed occupied when Elena entered the kennel, her steps nearly silent on the packed earth floor.

Sir Gwaine sprawled easily on the stack of baled hay, seated on one and leaning against another, ankle-deep in the loose straw spread on the floor for bedding and warmth. The old bitch – brown-brindle fur graying with age – lay on the sawdust opposite, keeping a desultory eye on her latest litter, three going on four weeks old, tumbling clumsily about the knight, who seemed delighted as a child at the attention.

"What are you doing, then?" he said, to the one Elena privately called Blacky, lifting it a few inches from the floor with his boot.

The pup tumbled off and squirmed to right itself and attack, growling a baby threat. Two more writhed in the man's arms, trying to lick his neck – and he twisted away from a brindled fourth, who'd managed to climb the bales of hay behind him with the clear intent of chewing the knight's hair off. He laughed, a warm chuckle, and spoke words that lifted Elena's brows.

" _Platz. Sitz. Steh_."

Those commands were reserved for the use of royalty – or very privileged nobility – and the kennel-master. Somewhere in his admittedly checkered past, he'd had occasion to learn and remember the words; that was intriguing.

The bitch's ears perked also at the sound of specific training language, and she jerked upright, sitting in an attentive stance, and Sir Gwaine laughed again as he addressed her. "Your young have a bit of learning to do, don't they?"

"Don't we all?" Elena said, moving from the shadowed corner of the doorway.

The knight stood immediately, recognizing her – but in an odd stoop that she first thought was a clumsy attempt at a bow. Til she realized the brindled climber was balanced between his shoulder blades, still growling around a mouthful of hair. "Your Highness."

"Oh, dear," she said. "Hold still."

Crossing the thigh-high barrier of the pen one leg at a time – and counting herself lucky that her skirt didn't rip this time – she waded toward the knight through the straw. And tripped over Blacky, who'd abandoned the knight's footwear for her own boot-lacing. The knight extended an elbow swiftly for her to catch her balance on, without dropping the pup cradled in that arm, and as Elena straightened, she rescued the brindle.

"Thank you very much," the knight said with an easy grin. "That one is a rascal."

"Mm hm." Elena didn't dare open her mouth to speak properly, as the pup squirmed to climb her shoulder and lick all over her face like she hadn't washed after breakfast.

Sir Gwaine – if that was his name – bent to put his double armful down, and they immediately tumbled over each other, play-snapping, lunging, rolling, and kicking. He then reached to take the brindle back, tucking it under his arm where it squirmed and grunted.

"You've got –" she gestured awkwardly – "straw in your hair?"

He reached a hand behind his head, raking fingers through his hair – and coming up with a few spindly straws. "Huh," he said, letting them sift down onto the pups, who took an immediate offensive against the attack. "Lady, might I ask you a question?"

Elena almost snorted at his chosen form of address, but he was serious, not teasing or insulting or ironic. She waded to the bales and seated herself on the prickly hay.

"You want to ask, how it is that I'm a princess when my father is a lord, or that Vivian is only a lady when her father is king?" It was a common question for new visitors, especially since Vivian was present.

The knight chuckled, seeming perfectly satisfied for the three pups to chase each other around and between his boots. "No, actually. You're princess because the line of succession passed from your grandfather the king through your mother the queen, and your father was never crowned, only accepted as consort, probably because your mother married for love rather than ambition, and the lords of Gawant resented it. That's probably also why your father governs your kingdom with the same laws as your strongest ally, Camelot. Easier that way."

Elena blinked.

He went on. "Lady Vivian, however, was born out of wedlock, though she is Olaf's first child, she is not the heir, and therefore never officially recognized as princess – she gets her title from her noble mother. One of the reasons he's rumored to have been so fanatical about her reputation – and probably why he allowed her to marry a younger brother. Less likely to eye the throne intended for another."

She was too astonished to reply. He spoke of an ignoble past – Merlin mentioned him drunken and penniless at one point, performing the lowest of menial tasks to pay his debts – yet he was a knight now, and _knew things_.

"What was – your question?" she said.

He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a shout that came from outside the kennel. She followed his gaze as he twisted to look – no one came into view, but the shout was repeated, and he bent to set the brindle into the furry chaos at his feet.

"I beg your pardon, Princess," he said, kicking his legs over the low wall in preparation to leave. "Perhaps we'll have another chance to speak?"

"I very much hope so," she said, not understanding the feeling of disappointment that weighed on her at his imminent departure. She'd rather have him stay, than be alone – and that was new for her. Strange, but nice. "I look forward to it."

 **A/N: Probably they didn't command their trained dogs in German back then, but… it works, right? For anyone who didn't catch it, it's "Down, Sit, Stay."**


	9. Elena (2)

**Chapter 9: Elena** (part 2)

Elena did not get the chance to speak to Sir Gwaine again that day. She didn't even see him until dinner – where she seemed to catch several glances he cast her way. Or he caught the glances she sent his way; she wasn't completely certain which it was.

But the memory of his smile made her happy, as she sat in her window in her nightgown and bed-jacket, creamy wool under filmy lace that tied with two ribbons over her chest.

The moonlight – all she could see anymore from this direction and angle – vied with the flicker of the fire in her hearth that Veramay had banked for the night before Elena dismissed her. The warm glow combined with the wine of the feast and the late hour to make her reluctant to retire to bed and put a definite end on a good day.

His smile. Not a response of required politeness, but of genuine friendliness, like he thought she was fun also. It was different than the relationship she'd fostered with Veramay, different than what she and Arthur had found and agreed to keep. She wasn't really afraid anymore, that she might do or say something that would make this particular knight retreat back into awkward formality. And that was a good feeling, to have made a _friend_ ; she smiled to herself as she twisted her fingers in the trailing ribbons of her bed-jacket.

When the door banged open, she jumped, startled to see her maid's gleaming red-brown cap of hair as the girl pushed back the hood of her cloak.

She began, "Vera-"

"Intruders, my lady," the girl gasped, springing to her side. "Soldiers, in the palace. Everywhere. Killing the guards –"

Elena felt strangely composed, like this was a misunderstanding only. Or a dream. Or perhaps a theoretical exercise – what to do if. "Calm down," she ordered Veramay. "Start from the beginning."

"I was in the courtyard," her maid gulped, out of breath. "Talking to – a guardsman. And suddenly they were there. My – my friend, he pushed me back in the shadow, but the intruder knocked him down. He could be dead. There were more of them – I couldn't even scream, I was so frightened they'd see me, and - I saw other guards down. And blood. They're in the hall now, I saw – I ran here."

"Good," Elena told her, trying to ignore the sick shivers crawling up her spine. "Good. You did well. Take a breath, and… what were they wearing?"

"Mail," Veramay recalled. "Tunics… dark-red, maybe?"

"The device?" Elena demanded.

Veramay closed her eyes, as if she could recall the tunic-symbols better by picturing them against the backs of her eyelids. "A beast's head. Bear – or wolf, maybe."

That would be Odin, likeliest by far by the description. But why would he attack Gawant? What did he want, what might he gain now, since he'd never so much as attempted to cross their border before… _Oh. Oh, sweet heavens_ –

"They're after Arthur," Elena said, filled with certainty and dread.

The blood feud was something between scandalous rumor and politely undiscussed fact. Uther and Odin had long been enemies; outright war was prevented only because Odin didn't have the men to take Camelot, and Uther was disinclined to lose half of his taking Odin's seaside fortress. So they skirmished back and forth until the newly-crowned King Arthur had published his claim that Odin was responsible for Uther's murder. Elena had heard her father say that Camelot was fortifying the border, and intended to negotiate for a unified front with Gawant and with Nemeth against Odin.

So Odin struck first. She hadn't once considered that Arthur would be vulnerable, leaving his kingdom with only a dozen knights for protection. She wondered if that hadn't occurred to her father, either. Or to Arthur himself.

"How many did you see?" Elena asked her maid.

"Twenty at least, just in the hall," Veramay said. "But more – _everywhere_."

Twenty in the hall meant Odin himself was there to be defended. He wouldn't dare send his army without taking responsibility by coming himself – which meant at least that many more, if not twice as many, searching. Odin had more warriors than peaceful little Gawant – and they couldn't possibly rely on Arthur's dozen. They _shouldn't_ ; those knights were sworn to their king's protection, first and foremost.

And her duty was clear also, as hostess. Protect the guests.

"Veramay," she said, rising and gripping her maid's shoulders. "You will go to the knights' quarters. Take the servants' routes," she advised over Veramay's initial protest. "They won't see you, that way. Warn the knights of Camelot to flee to the forest through the old siege tunnel, and our men as well. _Command_ them." She worked a ring off her smallest finger and wrapped her maid's trembling fingers around it, for authority. "If Odin's soldiers are in the palace already, our men can never defend it – but they might have a chance to retake it. I will go to Arthur."

The guest rooms weren't that far; down the hall, around a corner, halfway along another corridor. Past Vivian and Balan, actually – and what would become of them? First things first, she decided – King Arthur.

She yanked Veramay with her to the door, glancing swiftly in both directions. There was a faint but dreadful noise of battle in the distance, and too much silence here – the guards were gone, probably summoned to defend. Or fallen already.

 _Father. Oh, Father._

"Go!" She gave Veramay a shove.

The maid whimpered obediently, giving her a last frightened look before darting to a hidden door behind a tapestry depicting a hunt.

Elena picked up her skirts and flew on bare feet – down the hall, around the corner – and skidded to a stop just past Balan and Vivian's closed door.

The intruders were _here_. Men were down, men were fighting – sharp blades clashed and swung, clanged and flashed.

Elena caught her breath and the instinct to flee in the opposite direction, hand over her heart, and recognition came. Two on the ground, unmoving – one in Camelot red, the other in muddier burgundy. The fighters – the king and Sir Gwaine, she thought with a chill, tentatively identifying them from behind – held off three more men wearing Odin's wolfs-head in the narrow hall. There seemed to be another man slouched in the open doorway of Arthur's guest chamber, but he was dressed in brown – a servant, maybe.

Why no more than three – four, originally? Perhaps because Odin did not know precisely where to find his enemy, and had men ranging all over the palace.

 _Father. Oh, Father._

One of the enemy went down. Unexpectedly, she thought; Arthur himself seemed to stumble forward, and fell in close contact with the second. Sir Gwaine immediately dispatched the third with a vicious twist that sprayed droplets of blood, visible to Elena where she stood at ten pace; she flinched involuntarily.

"Arthur?" he demanded.

There was movement among the bodies on the corridor floor, and a groan. "Yeah."

Not really any point warning them; they already knew Odin's men were here. But perhaps not how many – and they were a long way from escape down that siege tunnel.

"Sir Gwaine?" she said aloud, starting forward again.

Just at the moment when a shuffling clatter sounded behind her. Gwaine was already turning – she had no time to do likewise – his face contorted in a grimacing scowl that frightened her.

" _Down_!" he bellowed.

She obeyed instantly, dropping to her knees and shrinking against the outside wall of the corridor as he hurled his sword down the hall, past her. She cringed as a man grunted in surprised pain –

Then recoiled as another maroon-clad enemy crashed to the floor close enough to spatter the hem of her nightgown with blood.

Gwaine was next to her in an instant, lifting her with one hand and retrieving his sword with the other. She caught a wiping motion out of the corner of her eye; she didn't want to look at the dead man – she couldn't help looking at the dead man – Gwaine touched her face gently to hide the sight from her eyes and guide her focus forward again.

She saw that Arthur was up and betraying no signs of serious injury; he squatted next to the servant in the doorway, wearing the same sort of fiercely intent expression that Gwaine was. A warrior's gaze, she realized – and felt partly intimidated, but mostly secure in the knowledge that they'd defend her.

"What are you doing out of your room?" Gwaine scolded mildly, glancing behind as he hurried her along.

"I was coming to warn you," she managed, through her teeth's determination to chatter; she felt very cold suddenly. "To warn Arthur, I mean – they're Odin's men, which means they want him, don't they."

Arthur glanced up at her with a grim sort of agreement of her assessment, then bounced up from his crouch reaching to pull the servant to his feet. Gwaine moved past Elena, probably to block her view of the other fallen men, and she recognized the servant before he was fully upright – the sorcerer, Merlin.

"What happened?" she blurted.

He swayed and rested back in the doorway, reaching to touch his forehead. Arthur swatted his hand away, and he winced as his king turned his face. Elena hissed to see a deep cut beside his left eyebrow, a trickle of blood down the side of his face, and swelling and reddening that promised a nasty bruise later.

"I miscounted," he said thickly, giving her a smile that was more of a grimace. "Sorry."

Arthur snorted, looking down and past Gwaine, who seemed to know what his king was thinking.

The knight said grimly, "They're wearing livery."

Arthur met his eyes. "How many more? They wouldn't come openly like this without an army."

"Twenty in the hall, my maid told me," Elena said. "With King Odin, probably, and more throughout the palace. I sent her to order the rest of our knights to flee to a prearranged meeting place – they can't hope to hold the palace, but perhaps it will be possible to retake it."

"Will ours go too, or will they fight to get here," Arthur said, half to himself. "We've lost Sindran, that would normally leave you in charge, Gwaine, so will they think…"

"You've got Merlin," Gwaine said shortly. "I think they'll trust him with your safety, and follow the princess' orders to go now and regroup later."

"Merlin?" Arthur said.

The sorcerer straightened – met Arthur's eyes with faint shock – and continued forward, sagging half-conscious as the king caught him.

"In here, quick," Arthur decided, his arms about Merlin's ribs and the sorcerer's feet dragging, as he staggered back into the guest chamber assigned to him. "Gwaine, bar the door like you told Balan to do. At the very least, it'll delay them."

"I'm all right." Merlin protested Arthur hauling him toward the bed by planting his feet deliberately if slowly. "I can sit, or – lean… I'm all right, Arthur, I swear." He pushed away, and Arthur allowed it, guiding him to rest against a small dining-table in the fore-chamber of the guest quarters. "If you think the knights will go, I can…"

"Can what, Merlin?" Arthur demanded.

Merlin was looking at Elena. "I know it's still illegal," he said, "but it'll be all right if you give me permission, won't it? To save Arthur – to save all four of us – with magic?"

Elena clutched her wringing hands, opened her mouth and said, "You have my permission."

"Merlin, you are not taking on twenty men," Arthur said sternly. "Even if Gwaine and I help you, that's a truly idiotic –"

The sorcerer bent his head, looking down at Arthur's hands on his hips, at the floor around them with exaggerated care. "Where's your sword?"

"In the hall. Snapped in half – that last man twisted as he fell, and…" Arthur shrugged.

"You need a sword," Merlin insisted, almost childishly. "I know where yours is. I can take you to it."

The way he said _yours_ made Elena think it was something special, something specific – and because neither Gwaine nor Arthur asked, she wondered if it was common knowledge to them.

"That spell you use to get from one place to another?" Arthur asked. "You can take people with you?"

"Yes," Merlin said with conviction. And then, "Probably…"

"All of us?" Gwaine said skeptically.

"I can't go," Elena objected. "My father is here. I won't leave him – and if I tell King Odin that you've gone back to Camelot, maybe he'll leave, too."

"He won't," Arthur predicted grimly. "This attack, after the assassination of my father, is too much for Camelot to take, and he'll know it. If I go back to Camelot, it'll be to raise an army – and his position is stronger here, with hostages."

"How far is this sword you want to take Arthur to?" Gwaine asked Merlin.

"An… hour or so. Past the border."

"There tonight, and if I meet up with whatever knights escape, I can be back with twenty or thirty men by tomorrow afternoon," Arthur said to Elena. "Odin won't expect that – with any luck, he won't be ready for it, either."

"Why don't you just have Merlin take you right to the knights' meeting place?" Gwaine suggested. "Someone will lend you a sword. Hell, there are several in the hallway right now that don't have owners anymore."

Merlin's bowed head wagged a sluggish negative. "I have to go where I know to go. Somewhere I've been before."

"You've been all over this palace and the grounds," Arthur said to him, "the whole road here."

"No…" Merlin's hand lifted to touch the gash on his temple gingerly. "I can go to the sword. Or back to Camelot. But if I try – anywhere else… I don't – I can't – I'm not sure I can, and uncertainty makes magic uncertain and I won't do that with someone else along. Especially you, Arthur."

"In that case," Gwaine said, grinning confidently, "and don't take this the wrong way, Merlin, but I'm going to stay here. It'll be easier for Merlin to take only one person, and I can guard the princess. Maybe her father, too – maybe even wreak some havoc in anticipation of your return."

Elena stared at the side of his face, not knowing what to say. Not being able to put a name to her tangle of emotions besides an overwhelming relief, that she wouldn't be alone.

"Are you sure, Gwaine," Arthur said. Merlin was looking at the knight, too, silent but sheet-white.

"Yes, my lord," Gwaine said firmly.

Arthur took two steps, reaching out, and Gwaine met his offered hand, clasping his king's forearm in return. "Be careful, then," the king ordered. "If Odin discovers you as a knight of Camelot, he'll probably kill you out of spite."

"Spite does seem to be characteristic of him," Gwaine agreed, almost flippantly. "You two be careful – and Merlin, you're going to owe me a trip with magic, too."

Merlin huffed, amused in spite of himself. Elena did _not_ claim the same future privilege.

"All right, let's go," Arthur said to him. "The sooner we're on our way, the sooner we can return."

The sorcerer straightened to stand unsupported, drawing in a deep breath. Arthur grabbed for his elbow, perhaps in apprehension that he was going to topple again – he looked it – but Merlin took hold of his king's opposite arm in much the same way. He spoke three or four words Elena did not understand, and his eyes flashed gold.

She didn't know what to expect, but Gwaine seemed unconcerned at the sudden eerie wind, the whipping gray wisps of both men's bodies flying into tatters – and then disappearing into ringing stillness.

"Was that –" she began stiffly. Realized she was clinging to Gwaine's arm, and forced herself to let go. "That was – normal?"

"Yes," Gwaine said. "I don't think we should worry that it didn't work."

"They must have hit Merlin pretty hard?" she said, watching him cross to the door and lay his ear to it.

He grimaced. "It was that noticeable? In his case, I hope hard-headedness is literal… Arthur won't be able to leave him behind. Do you want to try to reach your father, or remain hidden? If the servants are threatened, Odin may discover where Arthur's supposed to be – and then we're in a lot more trouble."

"Yes," Elena said. "I want to get to my father."

He acknowledged with a quick nod, and turned to lift the plank barring the door from its brackets, and eased it open, looking both ways before drawing Elena to the hall. It was similar to what she'd done with Veramay, and no matter the confidence she'd gained the last months dealing with the younger girl as her maid – in this moment, she was happy to have someone strong and smart and capable to lead her.

And as he once again shielded the dead from her view, it occurred to her, it was probably best if they weren't found here, for Gwaine's sake. If Odin assumed the knight responsible for the deaths of his men, he might execute him summarily whether he suspected him from Camelot, or not. Spite, she remembered.

Balan and Vivian's door was ajar – she pushed it open as they passed, but though there was some disarray, it was vacant.

She whispered to Gwaine, "Where do you suppose they –"

He rounded the corner as if he expected a close enemy – and in the blink of an eye his body tensed and his spirit visibly fired for imminent and bloody action.

Elena nearly twisted her ankle following – trying to reach him – and there were three more of Odin's soldiers blocking the corridor. Swords out, also half-crouched and ready to fight – and surprised to see her.

"Surrender, Princess, it is no use resisting," suggested the man in the middle. He looked young, with sad eyes and a high forehead framed by tumbled curls a sandy-brown color.

"Isn't it?" Gwaine returned impudently – his left arm sweeping back as if to keep her out of the way of the weapon in his right.

"No!" Elena said quickly. Sir Gwaine might take these three without receiving any injury himself – but he could never fight them _all_ , and she didn't want to see him overwhelmed and killed for his defiance. She amended, "Yes, rather. I surrender. Guardsman, lower your weapon."

Gwaine looked at her over his shoulder – a moment passed before he made the decision to obey as if he really were one of Gawant's defenders. Standing straight, he flipped his sword around to dangle from his fingers in invitation.

The curly-haired young man with sad eyes stepped forward to appropriate the weapon carefully, and addressed Elena. "Lord Godwyn is with my lord the king in the hall already – as are Lord Balan and Lady Vivian. It would earn you favor with my lord the king if you were to tell us the whereabouts of King Arthur of Camelot."

"I don't need King Odin's favor," Elena said bravely – and Gwaine's nod of approval of the sentiment or her spirit, increased her courage.

The response was a single raised eyebrow, as the speaker signaled to his two companions. One stepped to the corner to glance down the adjacent hall before joining the other in an escort formation behind Gwaine and Elena. "Four of our own down, and one in crimson."

"Do you share responsibility for that?" the curly-haired knight asked Gwaine.

"King Arthur probably does," Elena interjected. "He must have gone the other direction down the corridor. If you hurry, perhaps you can catch him."

The young man took one eager step forward, before one of the others snorted derisively at her rather obvious attempt to deceive them, and he caught himself, drawing to a fuller height.

"Once the… royals are gathered," he said, "and the palace's defenders are dealt with, we'll see to the bodies of all the fallen."

Stiff with offense that she'd tried to trick him, he turned to lead them down the hall past her chamber, through the open gallery overlooking the banquet hall. Elena could not help leaning to look down as they walked, wary of the two strangers behind them.

Her father stood next to a man that was surely King Odin – he wore no crown, but the deep lines in his face and the leather breastplate he wore, embossed with a glossy wolfs-head, were clear indications of his identity. They weren't speaking, but if Godwyn was strong and collected enough to wait standing, she could assume he was all right. Another set of maroon-clad soldiers was escorting Vivian and Balan into the room, both dressed only in light-colored sleeping-clothes, the lady's blonde hair loose on her shoulders like Elena's.

She minded her step on the stairs so she wouldn't trip. Down, around a corner, another short corridor to the double-doors of the banquet hall, and inside. Twenty of Odin's men was no overestimation, and a double handful of others she didn't look to identify were also present around the edge of the room.

Elena wished she was dressed. She wished she was wearing boots. Wished she dared take Sir Gwaine's hand and squeeze it tight for comfort.

"… Have no quarrel with either of you, or your father King Olaf," Odin was saying to the young noble couple. "How many escorted you here?"

Balan responded, so quietly Elena didn't hear, and was too rattled in the moment to remember if her pretty friend had mentioned. More than half a dozen?

"Two of those were lost, I'm afraid," Odin continued, "in the confusion of battle. You may carry my offer of reparations to your father."

"You're letting us go?" Vivian said, shrill with surprise.

"With your horses and your remaining men." Odin made a signal to someone across the room, and Elena turned her head to see four knights wearing dark-blue tunics bearing Olaf's black rampant bear released by as many in Odin's livery. "But you leave immediately. With my apology." He gave them a bow that was meant to be conciliatory, Elena was sure.

Lord Balan looked at Vivian, who dropped her gaze to her thin sleeveless nightgown.

Elena thought instantly of offering her own robe – but it was lace, and of little value on a midnight ride this late in autumn. "There are blankets stored in the stable, please take as many as you need," she said. If the couple weren't going to be allowed to return to their chamber to pack their belongings. Balan and Vivian turned toward each other in looking back at her; she could feel Sir Gwaine's eyes on the side of her face, too. She added lamely, "And – anything else you want to pick up on your way out. That you could sell tomorrow and buy… supplies."

Vivian's eyes filled with tears, and her mouth pouted prettily. She bounced forward and gave Elena a fierce hug. "I can tell my father," she whispered in Elena's ear. "He might –"

Elena shook her head, not to dissuade Vivian, but because she had little hope that Olaf could save them from Odin. "Thank you," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Be safe," Vivian returned. "Do whatever you have to." She gave Elena a little shake for emphasis; Elena couldn't help wondering what Vivian might be mentally prepared to do, in her situation – or what she might refuse.

"Very noble, I'm sure," Odin drawled, as Balan – with a glance half-sympathetic, half-apologetic – led Vivian toward their remaining escort and the door.

"Elena, my dear, are you –" her father began.

Odin turned and back-handed Godwyn across the mouth – she hoped he was more startled than harmed, but couldn't help gasping in dismay and shock, at the same time.

"I warned you, my lord," the king said, deceptively mild, "no speaking unless you direct me to Arthur." Black eyes pierced Elena with malevolent directness. "Perhaps you know something your father does not?"

"You will never kill Arthur," Elena said, hoping she sounded steadier than she felt. "But I'm sure my father knows that, too."

Odin took one step forward, reaching out to grab Elena's arm – Gwaine's hand immediately wrapped the older man's wrist and three maroon-liveried knights around them half-pulled swords from their sheaths. Odin ignored them all.

"Do you know where he is," the king demanded intently.

It felt like she couldn't breathe fast enough to keep up with her pulse, that she should be _doing something_ , but she didn't know what. Her father's bushy white eyebrows were raised questioningly, his face reddened from Odin's casual insult. And Sir Gwaine was unarmed. They all were unarmed.

"I can't tell you that," she said. "But I'm sure they've escaped the palace by now."

Her father breathed an obvious sigh of relief. Odin and Sir Gwaine released one another at the same time.

One of the knights who'd lingered a pace or so from the king's back offered hesitantly, "There are three bodies dressed in Camelot's red, my lord. But no others that we've found or seen, and the barracks have been emptied."

Sir Gwaine went very still, and Elena guessed he was wondering, who else had died. She felt the same, though she wasn't as close to Gawant's guardsman as Gwaine surely was with his fellow knights. But it seemed they hadn't found the hidden entrance to the siege tunnel in the barracks; that was good.

"Shall we pursue Arthur, sire?" said the curly-haired knight with the sad eyes.

Odin sneered at him. "And if the princess is lying, our forces will be sufficiently dispersed to allow the claimed escape, or a counterattack. Don't be stupid, Isdern."

It occurred to Elena that Sir Isdern hadn't argued for that course of action, merely inquired after the king's wishes. She wondered suddenly if all King Arthur's men were open and friendly and genuinely noble – and if all Odin's men were cruel and underhanded.

"If he's had the time to go into hiding, we must draw him out," Odin continued, in the abstract voice of someone reasoning out a change in plans. "And if he's turned tail to run for Camelot –"

"He'll be back with an army," young Sir Isdern said.

"And we shall need a position of strength to negotiate from," Odin continued.

"Shall we retreat with our hostages back to –"

Odin made a sound of disgust, cutting off his knight with a sharp gesture. "And have Camelot's allies rise up and join him, lose Gawant – which is ours tonight –"

Elena bridled; Gwaine's fingers brushed her arm; her father pressed his lips together unhappily.

"Along with most of our land, til it comes down to a siege. Which are hardly ever won by the besieged. No." Odin turned to gather the attention of his soldiers, raising his voice to address the room. "All of Gawant's fighters must surrender weapons and armor, and spend the night locked in whatever prison cells they have here. Servants to get to work restoring order and removing bodies – everyone else to remain in quarters. And keep looking for Arthur!"

A murmur of agreement and respect from his men, scattered throughout the room; Elena noticed that the sad-eyed young knight remained silent. Odin swung back to them, eyeing Sir Gwaine.

"Starting with this one," the king drawled.

Sir Gwaine's hands were fists at his sides. Moving only his eyes, he met Elena's with a look that clearly offered to break King Odin's neck with his bare hands, no matter if it meant his death at someone else's hands the next moment.

It scared her. Primarily for the responsibility of decision – he wasn't looking to her father – but also for the way it made her consider, lightning-fast, numbers and probabilities.

Odin would be dead, at least three more if Sir Gwaine could arm himself immediately – he probably could – but there wouldn't be enough help from the unarmed guards of Gawant, though they surely wouldn't stand still and watch. Some of them would die – Sir Gwaine of a certainty – and there was no guarantee they'd overcome the invaders; without a leader, they might instantly turn to looting and other depredations. She couldn't choose that. She couldn't.

She dropped her eyes from the weight of his dark intensity, down to the floor. Uncertain and cowed.

"Immediately," Odin added mockingly. "Unless you'd like our assistance."

Gwaine unbuckled his sword-belt and let it drop with a resentful _clang_. Then he reached behind his neck for the edge of his mail shirt and bent double, gravity aiding him as he dragged the heavy armor over his head, letting it slide down his arms into a clinking heap of metal loops on the floor. His hair was disheveled when he straightened, but there was fire in his dark eyes.

All over the room, their own captured men did the same. Slowly, reluctantly, some already in pain from injuries.

"Boots too," the king said, turning to watch his will enacted on a larger scale, turning to enjoy his victory.

Elena kept her eyes down, not really watching but aware of the last knight of Camelot stepping on the heels of his own boots and kicking them to the pile of chainmail. Standing next to her stocking-footed; she thought of their first meeting on the cool garden-gallery and tears sprang up to sting her eyes. She shifted her shoulders, hoping the three men nearest her – Odin, Gwaine, her own father – wouldn't notice.

"Let's go," one of Odin's knights said, prodding Gwaine – who resisted a single moment, before stepping away.

The curly-haired Sir Isdern did not go with them, but there were enough maroon-clad soldiers to leave twenty or so still in the room, while the others herded the disarmed defenders of Gawant – and one of Camelot – to the far door. Down to the cells – she doubted there would be room, but the burial vaults were right next, locked and empty but for the crypts. And then what?

Sir Gwaine was the last of the captives through the door; he glanced over his shoulder at her, but they were too far apart now for her to guess what he was thinking. Fear and anger, if his thoughts ran parallel to hers. Or maybe anger first and then fear, since he was a man and a fighter.

Then he was gone, and she was terribly cold and frighteningly vulnerable. Her father was watching her, and opened his arms in a familiar and comforting and well-loved way; she moved for his embrace without thinking.

Odin stopped her with his hand on her upper arm again, and this time there was no one to stop him. He made her skin crawl.

"My lord?" said young Sir Isdern. "To draw Arthur out, to negotiate from power? You have a plan?" His deferential tone asked to be included in the knowledge of such a thing, rather than questioning its existence.

"My plan is _here_ ," Odin answered significantly, not turning Elena loose. "Tomorrow afternoon Lord Godwyn of Gawant will hold a tournament which any unmarried knight may enter, for a chance to win the fair princess' hand in marriage."

Elena gasped. She'd heard of such things before, but –

Her father began to protest, "I say, that's –"

Odin back-handed him again, and Godwyn actually stumbled back against a table. Elena took one step toward him, and the king's grip bit into her arm so cruelly she flinched and froze.

"Our knights," Sir Isdern said. "But also Gawant's?"

Odin gave him a cruel sneer and Elena shuddered. Whatever he planned for the semblance and assertion of fair contest, he did not intend for Gawant to remain independent, after her marriage. Someone wearing maroon and a wolfs-head would claim the victory, and her.

Her father would maintain Odin's farcical tournament, to keep her safe. And when the time came, she would also speak the words of the wedding ceremony, to keep her father safe. And there would be those who suspected, who _knew_ – but as far as their own absent nobility, or their kingdom's neighbors, were concerned, it would be legitimate and legally binding. Gawant would belong to Odin, and certainly her new husband would deny any alliance with Arthur – if he attacked, war would be fought here.

That is, unless Arthur and those who had escaped tonight, arrived to rescue her from coerced nuptials…

 **A/N: I did say action as well as romance... And Gwaine's section will be in 3 parts, just fyi.**


	10. Gwaine

**Chapter 10: Gwaine**

One good, strong, sudden fist to the jaw.

Odin wouldn't expect that – how long had it been since anyone had punched the king in the face? – and Gwaine was nearly certain he could snag the royal sword from its royal sheathe in _seconds_.

Elena would duck out of the way. Then a backswing to take out the curly-haired boy-knight, and stab Odin through the throat. From there it would be, up on the table and moving fast. Effective attacks, and never slowing down to trade and parry. Make Odin's knights get in each other's way trying to kill-capture-subdue…

But it was not Gwaine's choice to make.

So he gave up sword and armor and bowed his head and discretion was the better part of valor. For the moment.

As he was marched with the other knights of Gawant, through the halls and down down down, he _watched_. Learning this part of the palace – low ceilings and thick dark stone, maybe not scrubbed but rinsed, adequate torchlight and small cells separated by iron bars and stone columns.

Learning Odin's men – brusque, grouchy fellows. Not proper and proud like Bayard's men or hearty and loyal like a good majority of Arthur's men or relaxed and friendly like the knights of Gawant – at least when they weren't being invaded. There was an important distinction – Odin's men fought for duty and fear of him and such sentiments weren't nearly as strong reasons to fight and _win_ , as other more noble concerns.

He was also looking for one particular defender of the kingdom. A young man with a round face and wide sky-colored eyes.

Gwaine almost missed Gilli. He was lying on the floor inside one of the cells, face-down, with two of his fellows seated protectively near, watching the newcomers. There were twice as many men already imprisoned than had marched down from the banquet hall with Gwaine; two cells stood open, with maroon-clad knights attendant.

"You lot, this way! The rest of you – over here…"

He sidestepped out of the line he was shuffling in – evaded the clutching fist of one of their escort, to slip toward Gilli's cell.

"Hey! You there!" the loudest of Odin's knights hollered at him.

Gwaine shrugged and grinned and ducked behind one of his fellow prisoners to enter the cell anyway – and Odin's senior knight dropped the protest as inconsequential, focused instead on getting every native of Gawant locked inside the bars.

"Evening, boys," Gwaine greeted in a low, unobtrusive voice, reaching the corner where his young friend lay, squeezing between other frustrated fighters.

Gilli stirred, turning his head to peer up at Gwaine – and one of his companions reached to keep a makeshift and blood-stained bandage on the back of the younger man's head.

"Dammit," Gwaine said, hunkering down, "what happened to you?"

"Talking to a girl," Gilli slurred. The other knight met Gwaine's eyes and rolled his own. "I wasn' on duty, Gysten," he added. "Just… in the side courtyard. Heard something – an' turned…"

"And got knocked out," Gwaine concluded. "Lucky you weren't run through." Gilli, and all of them.

Gilli whimpered a laugh at the suggestion, and the second companion near his feet spoke up.

"Who're you then, mate? Not one of us…"

"One of Arthur's," Gwaine said, with a swift glance to see that none of the invaders overheard. Most of them were already headed out of the chamber again, leaving a handful to eye their imprisoned captives disdainfully. "He's coming back. He'll round up any of yours that made it out, and –"

"What about Merlin?" Gilli managed to lift himself to his elbow.

Gwaine grimaced. "Knocked upside the head, too." He leaned closer to murmur teasingly, "Bit useless, your lot."

Gilli made a whining-protesting noise. "Is he all right?"

"Hope so. He got Arthur out of here, anyway." Where they were meant to go, and all in one piece, Gwaine hoped as well, despite his confident words to the princess. He couldn't contemplate anything else.

He settled back onto his heels against the wall next to Gysten, watching Gawant's knights shift restlessly, muttering to each other and glancing continually out of the corners of their eyes, much as Gwaine himself had done. Finding particular comrades and speculating on absences – dead or escaped – watching for weaknesses or opportunities. Not just for personal freedom, though that would once have been Gwaine's only concern. No, now it was about ultimate victory – freedom and safety for Lord Godwyn and his daughter the princess, the kingdom reclaimed and the invaders thrown out, dead or in retreat. Weighing risk against reward.

Gysten lifted the blood-spattered cloth to check Gilli's head as the younger man rested his cheek on the stone floor again. Evidently the bleeding had stopped; Gysten laid the bloody rag aside.

Gwaine leaned down to Gilli, trying to think of a good way to word his query when their circumstances were the opposite of private. And the younger man's head probably throbbing too insistently to translate a couple of significant winks.

"Gilli," he began. _Can you help us? How soon can you help us? Can you do something – do you dare use open magic – can I count on you in any plan I might_ –

The young sorcerer's eyes opened, and fastened on Gwaine's face – and understood. And it was exactly the same vaguely hunted expression he'd seen on Merlin's face as they'd crouched beside a stream and Gwaine had said, _They're going to have soldiers combing the forest for a sorcerer on the loose…_

He never got the chance to ask.

A trio of Odin's knights strode down the aisle between cells – older men, and harder, wearing sneers and carrying crossbows and studying each one of their captives searchingly. The one in the center, a step ahead of the other two, carried also a scar that interrupted wrinkles on his forehead and flattened his nose and probably made shaving interesting on the opposite cheek.

"What is it, m'lords?" one of the maroon-clad soldiers left behind to guard the prisoners called out.

"The king wants ten of these fellows separated and given special treatment," the foremost knight with the scar answered.

The burly bearded man at his right added, "Make it an even dozen, in case a couple of them don't make it."

Gwaine pushed instinctively to his feet. Odin could be after information; with Gawant's capital taken and its lord thoroughly subdued, however, what could the enemy king be after but specifics about Arthur. And in a collected dozen of these men, could Gwaine hope that none knew of the siege-tunnel escape route – or that they'd die before revealing it?

The scarred leader and his bearded companion had begun choosing their victims, pointing men out for the acting jailers to remove from the cells – in some cases, arguing suitability for the unknown but suspected purpose.

The third knight, a man with gray streaks in rather bushy sandy-brown hair, turned right to Gwaine with a wolfish grin. "I think _that_ one ought to come with us."

"Whoa, lads, now, let's talk about this," Gwaine responded immediately. He didn't know whether to acquiesce and save someone else the _special treatment,_ or try to talk his way out of it and save himself for a future opportunity to act. At his feet, Gilli was stirring with growing alarm.

"I don't know about him," the bearded man objected. "You saw how he defied the king - in look if not in word or action."

"He needs to be taught a lesson," the other responded with disturbing glee. "It'll be too easy anyway, tomorrow, don't you want at least one with some spirit? A challenge."

"The king doesn't want a _challenge_ ," the bearded man objected, mocking his companion with the tone of the word.

What would be too easy? And did Gwaine – in these circumstances – want to be a challenge?

"Fine, take him," the scarred leader decided, barely glancing at Gwaine.

"All right, you, let's go!" Gwaine was told.

For a moment, he contemplated options of resistance – refusing to obey, starting a fight, talking back… And couldn't see where it was going to gain him – them – any substantial advantage.

So he made his way – stepping over a couple prone injured, like Gilli – around others shuffling out of his way, and the door of the cell was unlocked for him and three others. He was pushed forward to make room for the full dozen, chosen from other cells, in the aisle between, but not crowding the trio of Odin's knights responsible for them, thumbing the crossbow triggers entirely too casually.

If it had been Camelot, Gwaine could have looked around for companions who were thinking the same thing as he, ready to risk and die in that moment, ready to rise up and retake... But it wasn't Camelot.

"March, boys," the leader commanded. "Just down the corridor to the royal family vault."

Gwaine delayed a moment so he wouldn't be at the front of the group, and sidestepped to be closest to the bearded fellow, as the company of captors and captives bumped and scuffed their way from cells to vault.

"So what's tomorrow?" he questioned, using a mild friendly tone. "This challenge?"

"Shut up!" the bearded man ordered, swinging the crossbow around in a deliberate way. The young man just ahead of Gwaine flinched away, ducking his head and hurrying.

Across the group, the knight with gray-streaked sandy hair commented loudly, "Don't suppose they need their tongues tomorrow, do they?"

The men beside and behind Gwaine shifted nervously – sweating and darting glances around them. Gawant was not used to this sort of threat; Gwaine almost pitied them.

"None of that sort of thing," the leader called up from the back of the group. "No mutilations. It's unnecessary. And we don't want anyone choking to death on their own blood, if we can help it."

But shot in the gut with a crossbow bolt was okay? Gwaine kept his tongue and did not find out.

The royal family vault was a stone-walled room a quarter the size of the banquet hall. Fifteen-foot ceiling at the highest point of various intersecting slopes; half a dozen large stone crypts at one end in a neat row, leaving most of the rest of the floor-space clear. Two torches on the wall didn't quite reach the shadows in the corners, but what caught the attention was the fourth knight – a man who rivaled Percival for size, and carrying it all in his shoulders and arms.

Carrying also, a coiled horsewhip. Foot and a half of stiff handle, an extra six or eight of braided leather, with a split fly-tip.

"Ah, hells," Gwaine said, his heart sinking.

He was not the only one to swear, or murmur. Someone made a muffled retching noise.

"Now then, lads," said the scarred leader of the wolfs-head knights, closing the door behind them with a resounding _clang!_ that made more than one of the captives jump. "No one needs to die. And no one needs to worry about betraying his kingdom or his lord, right? Tomorrow you'll even get the chance of saving it –" the bearded man snorted derisively – "So. No heroics tonight, yeah? Take your beating, and live to fight another day."

Gwaine considered if he was telling the truth. If he could make the six-foot leap to the nearest armed enemy fast enough to deflect the crossbow bolt, spin him about to act as shield against the other crossbows, draw the man's sword from his hip –

Hm. Not without getting some of the other captives killed. And could the remainder overpower those left in charge of the cells to free their companions – and could the lot of them take back the palace before Odin threatened Godwyn or Elena to force their surrender…

And then execute Gwaine as the instigator. If he was still alive.

Damn. Nope, he needed a better plan.

"First man," the bearded knight said, grabbing the clean-jawed youth and shoving him toward the whip-wielding fourth.

"No, start with him," the sandy-gray-haired man objected, pointing at Gwaine. "While Smillan is fresh."

"Fine," the bearded man shrugged.

Three crossbows leveled at the dozen of them. Four sheathed but ready swords, and the whip. Maybe even daggers, against they who were without armor and bootless. Carnage and casualties and – _unacceptable_.

Gwaine set his jaw and let his particular nemesis drag him forward. The stone was biting cold under his socks, unyielding and uneven. It was a hard thing for his pride, but as the silent Smillan uncoiled the whip, Gwaine knelt. Pulled the back collar of his gambeson up over his neck and tucked his arms – hands and fingers – protectively into the curl of his body, bending his forehead to the floor.

Crack!

A line of fire opened across his back, though he could tell it hadn't ripped through the padded jacket he'd worn beneath his appropriated chainmail. It was more surprise than pain. Crack! _crack_!

How many lashes would be dealt, he wondered. Crack!... Crack!... The fire was slower to fade with each stroke, the padding felt less adequate for protection since it was probably splitting open – _six, seven, eight_ – agony anticipated, breath held then gasped. He was cringing and flinching and he hated it –

Crack! Crack!

Drool dripped from his lower lip as he focused on dragging air into his lungs and forcing it back out – fast, but steady and controlled – and he didn't care to spit or swallow it away. Red flashed in the black of squeezed-shut eyes. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.

 _Crack!... Crack_ … how many had it been. How many more.

Merlin had been tortured. He'd seen the swelling, and slow-fading bruises on his friend's arms and chest from being beaten – that wasn't even mentioning what the bastard had done to Merlin's hands. And Merlin was skinny – less muscle covering his bones than any knight – and Merlin had not been trained to accept pain through its daily infliction on the training field. Familiar with it, not afraid of it, pushing through it to get the job done –

Gwaine could find the pride in his soul, to suffer as Merlin had suffered, in the service of his king.

Then balance tipped, and he instinctively caught himself on his shoulder - but the whip lashed across his leg and side, catching the edge of his wrist as he put his hand out to push himself back up –

At that he cried out. Bright, blinding – dammit – _pain_.

Can't have that. He rolled, curling away again. Protect his hands so he could use them later. He'd fought in Camelot's melee two days after being stabbed in the thigh and weakened from loss of blood, but that had been a close thing, and he was lucky he hadn't been trampled after being unhorsed, before he'd managed to stagger back up to protect Arthur. If he could keep from crippling injury now –

 _Crack!_ His elbow. _Crack!_ The side of his bent leg, curling around his shin.

The darkness pulsed and shivered and bled.

He heard the whip sound again and again. Methodical… brutal. Heard screams – moaning, begging – and bit his lips shut so hard the agony stiffening the rest of him muted, briefly.

Crack – crack – crack… He couldn't feel it, smothered as he was by the overwhelming throbbing ache that pressed him down toward darkness. But he was fairly sure he wasn't the one screaming like that, because it was all he could do to drag panting breaths in through his nose.

He opened his eyes again.

Blurry dark stone – faint flickering torchlight – obscene violent shadows dancing and jerking. He was on his side – he knew better than to roll to his back – or to move in any way that would draw attention.

He got an elbow down. Pushed and turned and drew in his knees, and blinked to see around dripping sweat and his own disheveled hair.

Time had passed; more prisoners were down. Some motionless, some rocking or trying ineffectually to crawl over the stone floor. The whip-hand knight seemed tireless – drawing back, snapping forward. The sound no longer made Gwaine flinch, it was too far away. Muffled by the moaning – the ringing in Gwaine's ears – the raw throbbing burn that spread over his shoulders and down his legs and around his ribs like molten iron into a mold.

He blinked sluggishly and there were only four men left standing – one very near him who kicked at one of the bodies.

Crossbow swinging point-down. Careless. But loaded and drawn. He allowed himself to be shoved back down to his side, and lay still.

He forced his eyes open again and it was darker. Quiet. The air smelled of blood and urine. Should probably move, work some stiffness out of the muscles so it wasn't so bad later. In the morning, in the…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine was not the first man awake, in the royal family burial vault, but he was the first to his feet.

Blinking his eyes clear in the dim single torchlight, he made it to his knees to discover three others in similar positions. The two closest to him, at least, were crawling to check on their prone comrades. Gwaine reached out to the clean-shaven youth – so shaky he had to put a hand on the floor before he felt at the young man's neck. The pulse was there, but no response to a gentle nudge and a soft word.

Gwaine briefly inspected the scabbed weal around his wrist where the whip had caught him, and another such mark through the rip in his lower left trouser leg, before groaning himself to his feet. His gambeson was probably scrapped, bits of loose cloth felt stuck to his skin in more than one place. "Oh, for the love of…"

Splitting pain overlaying bone-deep and pervasive ache. Nothing broken, he told himself, and after a moment he attempted to make his way to the vault door – one careful foot after the other, without stepping on anyone.

"Did they keep their promise?" he asked of the other three – four now, as another was persuaded to rise as far as sitting. "No one died?"

"Not yet," was the grim answer.

Gwaine grunted, stumbling, as he reached the door. Locked – no surprise there. "I don't suppose there are any secret tunnels leading out of this chamber, are there?"

No one answered him. His stomach rolled and growled with hunger or nausea or both like Elena's brindle pup, and he leaned on the side of his arm against the wall. After a moment a fifth knight was prompted to struggle up from the floor – and then Gwaine was moving forward, collapsing to his knees, reaching to check and maybe revive the next man.

He wasn't Merlin, who might one day be better than Gaius. But it took his mind off the searing ache ripping through his body at every move, coaxing and cajoling and encouraging mostly, sometimes tearing a shirt-tail to bandage the more exposed of the raw whip-marks on his companions.

More and more the question bothered him – _Why_.

"Did they ask you any questions? Did they make threats?"

Blank looks met his disturbed curiosity. But most of them were upright, and only one left unconscious, when the metallic clang of the door-bolt being drawn echoed through the chamber.

The first man through was one of Odin's, though not one Gwaine recognized. He was armed with a crossbow and a sneer – both of which he aimed at the beaten captives. And then, three young men in the plain drab clothing of servants entered, moving slowly under the heavy weight of arms-ful of chainmail. Another armed guard followed, closing the vault door again.

"Everybody up!" he shouted. "Put on the armor!"

The servants began to make their way through the room, sometimes handing the armor to one of Gawant's knights, sometimes merely letting one or two slide from the awkward stacks. In addition to the one who hadn't regained consciousness, two more made no move to get to their feet, though one dragged his mail shirt closer and started to sort it sluggishly.

"What's going on?" said the fresh-faced youth near Gwaine, to the servant who handed him the last shirt, turning and lifting it to help the knight with the armor.

"I dunno," the servant whispered, darting a frightened sideways glance at the guards at the door.

"A spectacle," Gwaine guessed, getting his arms into his own chainmail, then hesitating – it was going to be murder, as Elena had said of her fancy shoes, trying to wear the heavy metallic links after that whipping. "What time of day is it?"

"Two hours past noon," the servant said, helping to ease the younger knight's head through the collar of his mail-shirt, already starting to slide his feet away in leaving them.

No wonder he was hungry. Gwaine groaned at the stretching-tearing-burning in his muscles as he lifted extra pounds of armor over his head. And swallowed the nausea that rose in his throat as the cold links flowed down his shoulders and back, pressing hard and catching cruelly at raised welts he couldn't see.

"Get 'em on, get 'em on!" one of Odin's knights hollered, his voice booming through the stone-walled chamber.

The young knight next to Gwaine was swaying on his feet, arms up and shoulders back in a stiff posture of agony to keep the armor away from his own injuries. "I can't do this," he said to Gwaine desperately. Even though neither of them knew what would be required. "I can't do this."

Gwaine shrugged deliberately, causing the mail to rub over shoulders that were sore beyond belief. "Yes, you can," he said, taking the younger man by both shoulders, though his own arms felt unbearably heavy. "Come on. Yes, you can."

 _"Let's go!"_ they were commanded.

Another was helping the knight on the floor into his armor – one grunting and swearing, the other releasing sickening whimpers through clenched teeth. Gwaine reached down to help lift the knight to his feet.

"Lean on my shoulder if you have to," Gwaine told him, as they shuffled toward the door, in the middle of the pitiful crowd of beaten knights. "Come on. A hard day's training – in the rain, and mud – and a hard night's drinking… And you've missed breakfast and lunch – because of the hangover… And now you're – late for training and – you'll be made to do the worst of exercises for punishment…"

At least two who heard him snorted in grim amusement. The weakest one, though his hand trembled on Gwaine's shoulder, lifted his chin.

The clean-shaven youth said plaintively, "I'm not old enough to get drunk," and several more snickered.

 _Damn you, Odin_ , Gwaine thought, gritting his teeth as every move rubbed weighted metal across whip-marks in his skin and bruised muscles. _Whatever your game is, you're_ not _going to win._

They were herded back up to the polite levels of Gawant's palace. Gwaine's few glimpses of cross-corridors or rising stairs revealed deserted space; he wondered about the others in the cells, and whether Gilli was recovering enough to be able to _do_ anything – and then they were outside.

Two hours past noon was right. The sun was still high overhead, and they blinked in its sudden brightness. Gwaine's eyes watered; he didn't feel like raising a hand to shield his eyes – and then couldn't quite believe them when he followed his fellows into an arms-room. Not the main armory. But there were several sets of plate-mail armor arranged on the tables in the middle of the room, and along one wall, pairs of boots set on the floor underneath. And swords.

Ten in all, he thought; Odin's knight at the door shoved him unceremoniously toward one set, and he kept his balance with effort. The knight called out to the rest of them, "Wear it or don't, it's up to you."

Most of Gawant's knights exchanged wary looks with each other. Gwaine reached for the sword at his place, tilting it to see that it bore no edge. A dull practice blade for training or friendly tournaments. Daily sparring. A melee for the sake of prestige with no monetary prize.

"The hell is this?" said one of his companions under his breath.

Gwaine stepped into the boots, then reached for the greaves and stiffly began to add the weight and acute discomfort of the plate-mail, piece by piece. The young man beside him did the same, and silently they helped each other with the most difficult buckles, each grunting at the effort of tightening the armor into place on their battered bodies. All over the arms-room, most of the others did the same.

The helmet Gwaine tucked under his arm, and the sword he tucked into his belt. The point was perhaps sharp enough to drive through their guard's gut – and maybe someone else would do for the second guard at the other side of the room – but something more than curiosity warned Gwaine to wait for a better opportunity.

"All right, time's up. _March_."

Maybe it was the forced movement. Or maybe it was having a weapon at his hip again, blunted though it was. But Gwaine could almost convince himself he felt no worse than fighting a couple bands of thieves along Camelot's more remote roads. Staying up on watch – sleeping on stone-hard ground – getting up too early and too cold and too late for breakfast…

They marched into a great open space that was clearly the lists of the tournament grounds. Two-thirds the size of Camelot's lists, and the walls separating spectators from participants were only waist-high, not head-high.

Royal box in the middle, though.

Gwaine lagged a bit to end up closer to the guards chivvying them along.

"What's all this, then?" he asked. Folk were beginning to fill up the tiered seats – acting far more subdued than was usual for these crowd-pleasing events.

"I guess if you use your ears, you'll find out," was the rude reply. The guard shoved his shoulder, and Gwaine hissed at the flare of pain that sent jagged ripples through the rest of his body. The man bellowed to the rest, "Stop here and wait for the king's address, noble Sir Knights!"

They obeyed. They were thankful to obey. And if the lists had been empty, Gwaine rather thought they'd sink to the ground to pass out, to a man. Himself included, probably.

But the lists weren't empty. At the opposite end, the sun glinted from the armor of another group of knights – ten? Gwaine thought with inward sarcasm – that moved with purposeful menace, helmets on. He caught the flutter of maroon-colored cloth threaded through links on several chain-mail sleeves – a spectacle, then, as he'd guessed. Yours against ours and no one the wiser that yours have been whipped and deprived of food and water for nearly twenty hours.

Gwaine squinted up at the sun and wondered where Arthur was, now.


	11. Gwaine (2)

**Chapter 11: Gwaine** (part 2)

The stir of the crowd seated in the stands around the tournament lists alerted him – excited murmurs, a scattering of applause. One of Gawant's knights swore aloud, and Gwaine dropped his gaze from the distant heavens to see – her.

Elena, an ethereal vision in silver and white, thick blonde hair curled over her forehead and down on the fur covering her shoulders, entered the royal box on the arm of a man with iron-gray hair and a hard-lined face – and a leather breastplate embossed with a large gray snarling wolfs-head.

Behind them, Lord Godwyn followed unsteadily, head bowed beneath his circlet, good humor absent, shoulders hunched under his velvet cloak; another elderly-looking man in a cleric's brown robes accompanied him. Elena glanced over her shoulder as Godwyn sank to a seat behind the two high-backed chairs at the front and center of the royal box – but her hand remained at Odin's elbow as he lifted his other hand ostentatiously for attention and silence.

"People of Gawant. My lords and ladies. I thank you for your attendance on this momentous occasion, especially on such short notice."

 _I hate kings_ , Gwaine thought to himself. _If you know one, you know 'em all. Arthur being the sole exception._ He hoped Elena was okay; he hated to think of her frightened and hopeless. She looked pale, but composed; it could have been his imagination that her eyes found him in the group of knights, and stayed – but if it wasn't, he grinned on purpose to reassure her. They weren't beaten yet.

"We have gathered here today to witness a competition of the highest order – twenty knights willing and eager to prove their skill and resolve. And only one! the last and best, will be rewarded with the greatest prize Gawant has to offer – by Lord Godwyn's decree and Her Highness' consent – the victor may claim the princess Elena as his bride!"

Roaring approval from the gathered knights wearing maroon livery. Hesitant cheers from the spectators filling the stands, as if they'd all been taken aback at the announcement, and weren't certain they were supposed to recover.

"Damn," Gwaine said calmly, because it was all clear now, what Odin's game was. Some of the others, knights of Gawant, injured and mistreated so the field was nowhere near fair – said worse things. Out loud, and despairingly.

As things stood at the moment, Arthur with an army would be welcomed, hailed as rescuer and savior of Gawant. But with Godwyn's blessing – however secretly coerced – on the tournament, one of Odin's knights victor, and a marriage performed, Odin would own Gawant through that knight, the princess' husband. Gwaine had no doubt she'd speak the words, when any resistance would put her father in danger. And when Arthur arrived to oppose Odin, he'd be the invader in the eyes of every other kingdom, and _that_ would not be without repercussions.

Elena was seating herself in one of the two central chairs in the royal box, gripping the arm rests. Odin raised a white handkerchief.

"When I drop this…" he declared.

Gwaine shoved his way through Gawant's knights, ignoring the pain of his body in an angry sort of way. "You get behind us," he said, pointing out the four weakest of them, then yanking the steadiest-looking one to his side. "The rest of you, form up on me."

"And the last man standing…" Odin called out.

"Make them come to us," Gwaine ordered, as the others shuffled into place. He drew his sword, and balanced his helm in his left palm. "It's likely they'll use a wedge formation, try to split us up – don't let it happen. Make them flatten with their rush and spread to the flanks – and let our lines bend to the rear, so we're fighting back to back. As long as we've got a man able to stand, Odin hasn't won."

The handkerchief dropped.

The troop of Odin's knights formed and thundered toward them, yelling.

Gwaine took a deep breath, settling his helm on his head, knocking the visor down. Gripping the hilt of his sword – bracing…

 _Come on and damn you to hell, you sons-of-_

His intent was to catch the foremost knight's falling blow on his own appointed practice blade, crouching and catching him at the bottom of his breastbone with the other hand, and use his own momentum to catapult him up in the air, over their heads. Any luck, he'd black out on the landing – or one of the weaker knights behind Gwaine could knock him out.

It didn't happen like that. Gwaine was driven two steps back, appalled at the effect the whipping had on his strength and abilities.

Two steps back meant _no_ elbow room as the rest of Odin's knights smashed into their line in a rush. Gwaine defended furiously, but it was nothing like standing between Arthur and Bors as the rest of their comrades in Camelot proved the king's appointment of common-born knights justified. The steadiest-seeming knight at Gwaine's left fell almost instantly – and the backswing of the maroon-favored enemy opened Gwaine's forearm below the chainmail sleeve.

Damn it all, Odin's men had _sharp_ blades.

It wasn't about the pride of the kingdom – nor its freedom, with marriage to the princess at stake. This was life and death, now, which meant the strategy he'd just counseled, had to be abandoned. Gwaine saw a hole and drove through it, wildly knocking aside the blades that countered his, achieved open ground and spun.

Only one enemy had followed his charge, but Gwaine didn't hesitate, attacking hard and vicious – now hammering, now feinting, now giving the joined blades an extra swift sling, a move that had never yet failed to work. His enemy's blade twisted free in the air; Gwaine snatched it and slammed it through the knight's chest, left-handed.

One down.

Gwaine discarded his dulled blade, switched the new sharp one to his right hand as his enemy slid off the end of it to the sand – and stabbed a second knight deep in the side as he noticed and turned, just too late.

Two of Odin's were fighting each other; the promise of a princess and a partly-independent province just a little too much for the sort of loyalty Odin's men bore. But five of Gawant's unmarked knights were down already – permanently, Gwaine suspected. And most of the tactics he'd learned in Camelot would do him no good here.

So he reverted to his mercenary past. Every man for himself; no holds barred. And if that drew the attention of the other half-dozen of Odin's knights away from those of Gawant left standing – if it meant one of them would be the last and best promised Elena –

He fought.

The noise of the crowd was a dull roar like a stormy seaside. His skin stung and his muscles throbbed, and if he paused he knew he'd stumble in the loose sand and go down under the waves, and that would be the end. And not only of him – that was the unbearable part.

His entire being was burning too brightly and too fast. Surrounded, he slashed and spun and ducked – body heaving for breath, blade heavy and pulling at his wrist – parried and bent and skipped and stabbed.

Punched and kicked. Melee rules, hadn't they said? He didn't remember.

Arching away from a sudden pain in his lower back on his left side, he swung round and his attacker fell back, down to the sands of the list floor.

The world kept spinning. Tilting, as he turned – and turned – no one else near, he let the tip of his blade fall. It wasn't his sword; he didn't mind the minor damage caused by leaning on it. Fighting now to catch his breath, to slow the thunder of blood in his ears.

Gwaine finally focused on the single knight left upright, who was twisting in place as though making sure of his status also. The rest were down – more of them moving than lifeless, Gwaine thought as he staggered away from any who might recover enough to re-enter the fray before its conclusion.

The other knight did the same, facing Gwaine. His steps seemed uncertain and unsteady also, though that might have been the effect of Gwaine's own missing balance. He almost sympathized with the other – til he saw the ribbon of maroon cloth knotted at the side of the knight's sword arm.

He lifted his blade once again, determined with an implacable sort of fury, to put this man down also.

His opponent staggered another step forward, then reached to tip his visor up, and shove his helmet off. That gave Gwaine pause, more than recognition of the other as the curly-haired young man – Sir Isdern? yes, that was right – who'd first captured himself and Elena. It was what Arthur had done, when they'd faced each other across the melee field in Camelot. Honor, and gallantry, and all that.

Gwaine did the same, dragging the helm from his head. The sudden cool of the breeze lifting his hair contrasted with the heat of the rest of him inside the armor to give him the odd sensation of his head drifting away from his body. The helm dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and Gwaine let it. Unimportant. And if he bent to retrieve it, he was pretty sure he'd pass out; he could feel moisture trickling down his back, but didn't know if it was sweat or blood.

Isdern took three more of those careful, unsteady steps, til their swords could cross if they lifted them. His hair looked as sweaty as Gwaine's felt, his face blotchy like he'd be pale if not for the exertion. Gwaine couldn't tell if he'd been wounded.

"I would…" Isdern's voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat, making an abortive gesture at the royal box behind Gwaine, like he also felt his sword was too heavy, at the moment. "I would treat her well. I would respect your knights, and protect your people. I give you my word."

The young knight was asking, Gwaine realized, for his surrender. Which he couldn't give in any event, but maybe it meant Isdern was further gone than he let on. A quick glance told Gwaine, none of the other eighteen were even trying to get up; the smell of blood and battle was thick and he was sure that more than a couple of the motionless bodies were dead already.

Distantly he could hear Odin roaring above the questioning murmur of the crowd – shouting orders to his knight probably.

"No," he told Isdern. "You cannot have Gawant. _This_ , is what Odin does – and you will always be his creature."

The young knight closed his eyes briefly, as a look of inexplicable bitter regret and longing crossed his face. Gwaine had a moment to wonder at that, before Isdern launched into a frenzied attack.

Initially pushing Gwaine back. Exhaustion plucked at his limbs as though he fought in deep water, and pain was his reward for successful defense. But Isdern's blows never landed except on Gwaine's blade – and then he ducked a swing – and side-stepped another, wasted energy on his opponent's part… The young man had reverted to the very basic moves taught at the beginning of a knight-hopeful's training.

Gwaine parried – waited through three more attacks – then twisted his blade suddenly around Isdern's. Two and a quarter rotation, the impetus giving him momentary and tenuous control over both weapons –

This time he didn't try to catch the blade as he disarmed his opponent.

Surprise… fear… resignation. Isdern lifted empty hands as Gwaine took one step closer to menace him with his blade in obvious victory.

"I yield," the young knight said, in a clear voice that carried. "The field is yours."

The princess as well. Gwaine decided he trusted Isdern enough to turn his back on the younger man, as the crowd erupted in cheers that sounded and felt genuine this time, and approached the royal box. His legs didn't seem to want to cooperate, now locking, now dragging, now buckling – but force of will carried him along and upright. It was a good thing they weren't that far away from the stands.

Elena perched at the edge of her seat. He couldn't see her expression, as one hand covered her heart, and the other her mouth. Odin, however, was seething. He'd wanted this spectacle public – and he'd gotten it.

"Your Majesty," Gwaine called, and didn't bother stretching for any respect to cover his tone. "By Lord Godwyn's decree and Her Highness' consent. I claim my bride."

The brown-robed cleric at Lord Godwyn's side stepped forward. "Sire, do you wish me to –"

"Not now, you idiot!" Odin hissed – and turned to show a pleasant grimace to Gwaine and those in the crowd near enough to see. "You have our congratulations on your victory, Sir Knight. Perhaps you require a physician – let us also prepare a feast in your honor, and certainly a night's rest before –"

The hell he did. Require multiple opportunities for Odin to make sure he _died of his wounds_ , and marry Elena to Sir Isdern – who looked as though he'd like to collapse and be carried out by the list attendants, already doing their job to clear the field, unobtrusively but with pricked ears and avid glances toward the royal box. No, the public scene was one of the few weapons Gwaine had left.

"Not at all," he returned. The people in the stands were scooting closer, packing tighter, as the whispered word spread around the lists. "You planned on conducting the ceremony immediately, didn't you? There need be no change of plans on my account."

Lord Godwyn was on his feet. "It is a bit impetuous, but by no means unanticipated. Sentys, the words of the ceremony come readily to mind, do they not?"

The cleric gave an agreeable half-bow. "Of course, my lord."

Elena rose to her feet, letting her hands fall to her sides to show her expression composed once again. She glanced up at her father – then her eyes sought his. "Gwaine?"

He was weakening, he knew it; he knew it showed. But he didn't trust the set of Odin's shoulders or the way he fingered the hilt of his sword in its sheath. Gwaine shoved his appropriated sword through his belt and gripped the list-wall a moment for balance. Muffling his groan as best he could, he swung one leg over and inside the royal box, then dragged the other over the wall also.

Elena reached for him, as dirty and sweaty as he was; he decided that after all, he probably should be on his feet for this, and allowed her to pull him upright. She kept his hand in hers though he couldn't feel much more than tense pressure through the gauntlet, and regretted that a bit.

The cleric began much as Odin had – "My lords and ladies, and people of Gawant. We are privileged this day to bear witness to the vows of Princess Elena and Sir – ah…"

"Sir Gwaine," Elena and her father said at the same time, forestalling his belated self-introduction.

"Princess Elena and Sir Gwaine of Gawant in the bond of wedlock –"

He wondered if it would be legally binding if they hadn't said, Sir Gwaine of Camelot. Then again, this was starting to feel a bit like his knighting ceremony this spring – unexpected, surreal, frighteningly _right_ , and his only second thoughts were for his own unworthiness – and that was _binding_ though no one but Merlin knew he'd been born of noble blood.

"…To honor and cherish her as your bride, to protect and provide for her to the best of your abilities and resources to the end of her natural life?"

Dizzily he wondered if the ceremony was fluid enough to include or exclude the detail of love, as it had bearing on the specific union performed. He wasn't sure he could, in all honesty, promise his feelings – could anyone? – but his actions were his own choice, and he was glad the wording allowed him to make the vow with a clear conscience. "I so swear."

"And do you, Elena, promise your husband your full respect and absolute fidelity…"

He could not help a faint but very deep tremor. Hadn't he said just days ago, and to this very woman, _I will never wed_ … Just as he'd sworn never to be counted among the nobility, or to serve another king…

"I do," Elena said softly beside him.

"Then by the power vested in me by the lord and ruler of Gawant, I proclaim and present Gwaine and Elena, husband and wife."

Meeting her gaze brought a moment of clarity and a breath of peace. She was still fearful – he couldn't imagine what mental and emotional horrors she'd suffered since they'd parted company – but there was gratitude and relief and trust in her eyes.

Gwaine considered options that hadn't seemed to occur to her, as she waited for his move, and gently lifted her hand to kiss, rather than attempting any more personal seal of their union. He was aware that she was a princess and probably had very little experience with any form of intimacy – and that his physical state was more than a bit repulsive to feminine sensibilities, at the moment.

The crowds lifted a cheer on the waves of applause again, bringing him back to the reality of the situation.

Odin said, "Please allow my knights to escort you and your fair bride to chambers, Sir Gwaine, where you can –"

"Lord Gwaine," Godwyn interjected, firmly establishing the authority of the new husband of the princess.

Gwaine felt it might be a relief to pass out. "King Odin. I believe you and your men have overstayed your welcome and begin to trespass too much on Gawant's hospitality. Inside half of an hour I expect you all to be on the road with your noses pointed toward the comfort of your own castle and homes. If you require any assistance I am sure our people will be pleased to speed your departure."

It was mostly bluster, and they both knew it. Odin had wanted his conquest of Gawant to become legal at least, and polite on the public face of it, but -

The king turned to look out at the lists, at Sir Isdern lingering near enough the royal box to overhear. The young knight turned to the stands, giving a shrill whistle and a series of hand signals that brought maroon-clad soldiers spilling down the seating tiers of the stands, over the walls into the lists.

Forty at least, fifty maybe – Odin was inside his sword's reach, but Gwaine was only one man and not steady on his feet. Actually, he seemed to be leaning quite heavily on Elena's grip of his arm, so how was he going to… sacrifice his own life, by killing Odin. And hope that Godwyn could fill the void of authority, rather than one of Odin's seniors.

Was it even within his ability anymore? Maybe it didn't matter, because nothing else was.

Gwaine reached for the sword-hilt at his hip, the edges of his vision blurring at the agonizing pull of damaged flesh across his back as he drew his weapon.

Odin didn't even notice. A disturbance at one corner of the lists behind him caught the rippling attention of the people – and the knights gathered in the lists. Some of whom drew sword – some glanced to Odin for his reaction or orders – some few stood from checking on a fallen comrade that hadn't been carried out yet.

It was a moment before Gwaine could focus on the stream of people – men – entering the sandy grounds. He'd gotten as far as _knights of Gawant_ , when Elena spoke in disbelief.

"Is that Gilli?" she said.

Gwaine couldn't tell for sure, but the possibility fired in him a new surge of energy and fierce hope. If the young sorcerer had recovered sufficiently from his head wound, and found the courage to act, and free his comrades –

"How in the hell did they –" Odin interrupted himself, pointing and bellowing, "Stand where you are – you are all under arrest –"

"The hell they are," Gwaine countered, almost light-headed with relief.

Twenty-five men, give or take, if he could trust his eyes and judgment right now. The odds were still against them, two-to-one, but the newly-freed knights of Gawant were armed and most wore at least chain-mail, and that wasn't insignificant.

"Leave now," he ordered Odin, in a low hard voice. "Take the horses you brought and the men who rode them and go peacefully – and if every weapon remains sheathed, we'll let you go with no retaliation." He paused, then put every ounce of his resolve into the warning, "This time."

Odin stared at him, and Gwaine could fairly hear the calculations clicking through the old king's consideration. The advantage of numbers – the cost of the campaign – the loss of credibility among his men if they left now… No. He wouldn't.

The ring of Odin drawing his sword covered whatever words formed his battle cry, echoed immediately and chaotically by his men on the arena ground. Shrieks from the startled crowd made Gwaine's head spin – but Odin didn't move to attack him. There was no room in the royal box for fighting, and Elena and Godwyn and Sentys the elderly cleric were present; Odin was only making sure Gwaine stayed put. Almost neighborly of the enemy king, Gwaine thought – if he attempted to reach the sand, there was every chance he'd fall flat on his face and stay there.

"Oh, they can't possibly-" Elena gave a soft cry in his ear. "Gilli has _magic_?"

He saw what she saw. The sort of chaos unusual to a melee like this – swords yanked away from owners, men sent flying singly or in pairs. Gilli was probably as good as ten men, by himself, but –

It would be moments, only, til Odin's men realized that, and converged on the young sorcerer and he couldn't fight so many for long. He'd be killed, and would it even the odds enough for Gawant to snatch a victory?

"Stop this, Odin," Gwaine growled. "You're losing men, and you won't win."

Odin's body faced him, ready to defend if Gwaine was foolish enough to provoke swordplay – but he turned his head from watching the field to sneer. Whatever he might have said, however, was lost in Elena's next exclamation.

"Oh, look, Gwaine! Camelot's men – _Arthur_!"

From the opposite corner. The inward corner, which puzzled Gwaine til he realized, they'd come up through the siege-tunnel again. He had to grin at the thought of them creeping warily – and then finding the palace deserted on account of Odin's spectacle, and Gilli's mass prison escape.

He couldn't see clearly, but the two in the lead were Arthur and Merlin, of course. His king shone in the late afternoon sunlight, chainmail and a singular bared sword that drew the eye, and Merlin his faithful shadow. So it worked. The magic to escape, the recovery of the sword – and Merlin hadn't been clobbered too hard to keep up.

Gwaine was overwhelmed with relief. His sacrificed life and body did not have to stretch to cover every eventuality. His legs did not have to carry him to an impossible victory anymore – so they didn't. He collapsed down onto the seat Elena had used to watch the match, and the sudden jar of pain shooting through dull stiff ache served to clear his focus. Elena knelt beside him with a worried look, and he almost laughed because now they were all _safe_.

More knights streamed into the lists behind Arthur and Merlin – a handful wearing Camelot's red, and twice as many others, those who'd escaped the palace uncaught – fanning out to take the burden of defense off their beleaguered brethren. And Odin's knights were now outnumbered, and unsure, and fell back as Arthur strode straight toward the royal box.

"Kill him!" Odin yelled, a note of hysteria entering his voice. "Arthur Pendragon! My kingdom and crown to the man who kills him!"

Some stumbled. Some made to leap to the attack before inexplicably changing their minds to spin away with startled yelps, leaving an open avenue between Arthur and Odin. Merlin made no sign of magic, and he was too far for Gwaine to be sure of any telltale gleam in his eyes, but. Yeah, probably magic.

"Odin, you are finished!" Arthur called out, raising that eye-catching sword to point at the enemy king. "Surrender, and you live."

"Never!" Odin spat, though all over the field, one by one, his men were dispatched or disarmed or simply defeated sufficiently to cease fighting. "You killed my son!"

"And you killed my father!" Arthur shot back, his voice trembling with passion – but it was controlled. "Where will it end, Odin?"

"With your death!" The king, apparently incensed that none of his knights ventured to attack Arthur anymore, vaulted over the wall into the lists himself, sword in hand.

"And my men will kill you," Arthur countered, lowering himself into a readied stance, balancing as Odin approached. "And neither of us has an heir, so our kingdoms will be torn apart and the blood will not stop."

"I do not care," Odin said, circling Arthur but not attacking yet. Merlin moved also, keeping Arthur between them, remaining silent at his king's back. "You are a cheat, a liar and a hypocrite and unworthy of even your father's throne. Oh, I see you, sorcerer, always fighting your master's battles, always seeing to it that he wins, whether he deserves it or not. Whether he's the better man or not. When your puppet-prince is dead, I will enjoy killing you also."

Merlin stopped, and Arthur straightened slightly, and Gwaine could see Odin's habitual sneer even at the distance.

"Yes, I heard about your pet, and his secrets, breaking your father's laws to your own advantage," Odin continued. "Of course I realized what really happened, all those years ago. You could not have defeated my son on your own."

Arthur began to argue in a puzzled tone. "You're wrong - I didn't even know Merlin when I fought –"

And in that moment, Odin struck.

His attack was every bit as frenzied as Isdern's had been, only slower. He was putting all his strength into each swing of his blade, with almost blind hope that it would work. Arthur defended as he'd done against Prince Wolfrick of Mercia, backing and circling – and when Odin retreated a pace for a breather, the younger king spared a glance for Merlin, pointing to emphasize the quiet command that still carried, at least to the royal box.

"You stay out of this. No matter what."

Merlin nodded, but Gwaine knew his agreement would last only to the point of a near-fatal wounding. He wouldn't allow Arthur to die, and Arthur couldn't really order him to, and they both probably knew it.

Gwaine didn't think there was much danger of that. Arthur was the best swordsman he'd ever seen, and even knowing Merlin, he doubted there was much truth to Odin's claim that Arthur's victories were due to a surreptitious cheating with magic.

But as Odin attacked again, it seemed faster, somehow. Gwaine couldn't follow all the moves – was slightly mollified at the fact that Arthur apparently could – and both figures kept blurring together. He was vaguely aware that the rest of the arena had gone quiet; no one was fighting anymore but Odin and Arthur, and Elena still gripped his hand as she watched the duel between the kings.

Bright red – dark red. Gold – gray. Flash of sunlight off a blade-edge – a cry of pain and a stagger.

Gwaine leaned forward reflexively, the skin of his back stretching and breaking and oozing pain.

" _Arthur_ ," Merlin said, but he was still keeping his distance.

The darker figure straightened and closed with the lighter in a sudden charge. Gwaine could hear the clanging of their swords; the sky dimmed slowly, slightly. He squinted worriedly as another cry of pain rang out.

Golden-haired Arthur in bright crimson stood over his crumpled opponent a moment, then knelt beside him. Merlin stepped closer, watching the fallen man, but remained on his feet, hands loose at his sides.

Gwaine didn't need anyone to tell him it was over. He sighed and finally released the last of his stubborn energy to let himself slump in the seat – landed clumsily on the arm-rest and arched away from the flare of pain. He was slipping to the floor of the royal box before he knew it.

"Merlin!" Elena shouted, and there was tension in her voice.

"Oh, good heavens," someone else said, above and behind her – Godwyn, maybe. "Is he –"

Merlin leaned over the wall above him, breathless and frowning in concern. Gwaine managed to grin up at him. "I was never so glad to see you, my friend, you have impeccable timing."

"Well done yourself, Gwaine," Merlin answered, reaching for the blood-smeared fabric of his ruined gambeson, split over the cut in his forearm.

"And you…"

"Merlin, there's a lot of blood back here," Elena said with quiet desperation.

"Let me see." Merlin vaulted into the box to kneel beside him.

Gwaine realized that he was lying in her lap, as filthy and uncomfortable as he must have been in his armor. He obeyed their prodding, twisting around to see her face, pale and worried, haloed with soft golden curls – and her hand stained with liquid red as she shifted her grip on him. Probably her dress ruined, too; it was a beautiful gown, and white.

"Sorry," he tried to say.

But the pain in his back was like a heated hammock spread beneath him, rocking as he relaxed into it, swaying him away into darkness that was surprisingly soft and pleasantly numb.

 **A/N: A day early for this update, b/c I'm going away for the weekend – but next week's should be Friday as usual… Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing!**


	12. Gwaine (3)

**Chapter 12: Gwaine** (part 3)

He smelled lavender. And floated on something cloudlike – soft under his cheek, his whole body. He was sore all over, but hurt nowhere in particular, and when he persuaded his eyes to open, the blur of colors was all light, the shapes nonthreatening and mist-edged.

"Good afternoon, my lord." A soft male voice, expertly modulated for the sort of full-body ache that distracted him. Deferential, but there was a note of amusement there also.

Gwaine grunted, and shifted, and focused on blues and browns. Merlin, seated on a chair next to the bed, leaned forward over his knees to grin.

"You feel like staying awake, this time?" his friend added.

Gwaine considered. "We'll see," he muttered roughly, shifting again but content to remain prone and relaxed. He moved his left arm and felt the pull of stitches beneath bandages. The cut made by enemy sword, rather than the whip, he thought. "How long?"

Merlin understood the abbreviated question. "Almost a full day. All night and this morning… It's midafternoon now."

He moved up from the chair, and Gwaine felt cool air hit the bare skin of his back. It wasn't painful, just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

"I healed the worst of it for you. The wound here from the tournament was fairly deep, and bled a lot, and… some of the other marks. I think Arthur wanted to kill Odin again, when he saw what they did – and make his death last a lot longer, the second time."

"Odin didn't want any of us… able to win," Gwaine said carefully. Of his own decision to submit and endure, he'd never say a word. "Did you look at the others, too?"

"Yes. There was one knight, Sir Gareth, who wanted a chance to express his gratitude to you for what you did, for him and for all of them. My age, or younger maybe - he sounded like he expected you to recognize him?"

"We didn't exactly introduce ourselves formally." Gwaine thought the only knight of Gawant he'd recognize would be the clean-shaven youth, but Gareth was a name that would fit him. Time enough for that later, probably.

"Gwaine… I'm really sorry about this. I should've –"

"Shut up," he interrupted, taking a leaf from Arthur's book – and understanding a little better the king's impatience with Merlin's tendency to apologize for things that weren't his fault. "It was my choice…"

Merlin's touch was light and gentle, introducing no self-consciousness as he finished satisfying himself over the state of Gwaine's injuries, and sat back down. Now that Gwaine could focus on his friend's face, he could see that Merlin looked weary – and there was still that bruise at his temple. "Lord Godwyn's physician is really good, though they let me help. Gilli, too, once he was healed."

No wonder the young sorcerer looked so drawn, and that after the long hike back over the border to the palace of Gawant. Gwaine started, "But what about –"

"Special dispensation from Lord Godwyn." Merlin smiled. "Healing magic is now legal in Gawant."

"Mm. Good." It was a start, and probably energized Merlin as much as a good nap and a full meal. Gwaine started again, "What about –" and his young friend correctly anticipated that question, too.

"They left this morning. We patched them up, too… Evidently –" Merlin's eyes lit with a pleased sort of merriment – "one of the younger knights was actually King Odin's son. Illegitimate, though he was never acknowledged even unofficially, everyone knew it. The rest remaining were content for him to assume command – he signed a treaty with Arthur this morning. A messenger was sent to Bernard to be alert to unrest along the border, but Arthur thinks Isdern can hold the throne, especially since no one wants to fight in the winter, and by spring hopefully no one will care enough to contest his claim, if his understanding with Camelot remains secure."

"Isdern, huh?" Gwaine tried to call up the young man's face in his memory, tried to match it to Odin's sneer, and couldn't make it fit. Well, if he was a better man than his father – like Arthur – no wonder he'd reacted so strongly to the wording of Gwaine's refusal to surrender to him.

"They found your father's sword, too - it's set aside in the armory, for when you -"

Somewhere behind him, across whatever room they'd put him in after the tournament, the door opened. Gwaine watched Merlin's glance flick alertly past him, before he relaxed in the chair again.

"Arthur," his friend informed him, half a second before the king spoke.

"Is His Lordship going to lie in bed all day? Come on, Gwaine, if it's one thing I know – shut up, Merlin – it's that a tournament champion _has_ to get up in time to attend his own victory feast."

"Feast," Gwaine said, and even though he was lying on his stomach, it woke with interest at the suggestion.

"I've been feeding you," Merlin objected with a twinkle in his eye. "Broth, and so on. _Tiny_ bites of bread while you were half-conscious." He moved out of the chair to make room for Arthur – out of armor and wearing a simple red shirt under a fine but understated dark jacket.

"Broth," Gwaine scoffed, getting an elbow under him. The muscles from shoulders to knees only felt sore, not acutely painful.

"So," Arthur said, seating himself and pretending to be stern – and he might have pulled it off were it not for the quirk at one corner of his mouth. "It seems that you're married. The first of any of us, without waiting for your king's permission or presence, and quick before we could stop you."

"I was stalling for time," Gwaine protested. "It's not my fault you were late."

Arthur scoffed, sprawling back comfortably in the chair, and Merlin was grinning as he leaned on the wall beside and above him. Gwaine studied them, and a concern occurred.

"They are going to be able to annul it, aren't they?" he said. "I mean, performed under duress and the cleric used the wrong name for me if you want to worry about details…" Then again, he'd been knighted under somewhat-false pretenses and he considered that binding.

Arthur looked up at Merlin.

"He's a man of his word, you know that," the younger man softly answered what the king hadn't said. "He'll keep the vow of fidelity… What I want to know, though, Gwaine, is that you like her well enough for both of you to be happy."

"I like Elena more than anyone except Gwen and Ally," Gwaine said honestly, but with a sinking-flying feeling that wasn't just an empty stomach. "But I thought –"

Arthur shook his head. "It was public," he said, "and yesterday. I mentioned it to Godwyn very delicately, but he seems to consider it done, the matter closed. He assumed you were an honorable man with my full confidence – and he wasn't wrong - and I think we could cause great offense by bringing it up again. Gwaine… you're _married_."

He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to the mattress, muttering, "Mind if I get drunk tonight?"

Merlin sounded both sympathetic and amused. "As long as you get up and eat a meal first… But it's probably not Arthur or me you need to be asking that question anymore."

She took form in his mind's eye, beautiful and uncertain, and he turned his face to the side to look at his friends again. "What about Elena? She knows she's stuck with me? What has she said?"

"She hasn't protested," Merlin offered encouragingly.

More pragmatic, Arthur added, "She probably wouldn't." Then he leaned forward and his eyes took on a warrior-king sort of intensity. "Gwaine – no matter how highly I think of you, and all joking aside, if you make her miserable I will _carve_ you."

Gwaine shook his head heavily. "If I make her miserable, I'll let you."

"All right, enough of the threats," Merlin said. "Gwaine, you still need your rest, and this whole situation will look different when you're feeling better."

He grunted, not sure whether his young friend's optimism made him feel better at the moment, or not. He remembered that Merlin himself was contemplating a marriage-upon-agreement, rather than a love-match – but Merlin was a different man than Gwaine. And only days ago, Percival had found himself unexpectedly betrothed – but that had been his choice, and he had years to befriend his bride and fall in love, before the actual wedding. Gwaine decided he was too exhausted for any more thinking.

"If I sleep now, I can be up for dinner," he conceded. "Maybe ready to ride by tomorrow. When did you want to…" He trailed off as Arthur exchanged an upward glance with Merlin again. "What?"

"You're married to the princess of Gawant," Merlin said gently – and though he smiled, there was a suspicious brightness to his eyes that had nothing to do with amusement. "You can't just pack her up and bring her to Camelot with you. Her place is here."

"And you can't just marry a lady and then ride off without her," Arthur said, trying to make his voice light. "It's rude."

He hadn't thought of that; a stone settled in his stomach. "Means my home is here, now?" he said, half to himself. And he wasn't fifteen years old, to literally run from responsibilities that were laid on him without choice, to plunge into disreputable freedom.

Arthur's hand was warm and gentle on his shoulder. "It's not bad, here."

"It's not far," Merlin added immediately.

"Do you want any of the knights that accompanied us to stay with you?" Arthur offered.

Gwaine thought of Sindran, who he'd gotten to know on the journey to inspect Lord Bernard's border defenses – a good sense of humor, infinite patience, and open-minded regarding a man's class and skill. And he was dead, now – just like more than a few of Gawant's defenders.

"No," he said. He'd have to start over getting to know people and proving he could do the job unexpectedly appointed to him. Just another challenge – and if Arthur and Merlin thought he could do it, he'd have to. "Thank you, but no."

Arthur moved out of the way, preparing to depart as Merlin bent over Gwaine again to fiddle with bandages. "Gilli's here," Merlin reminded him. "And Descalot is half a day's ride – Lancelot and Ally will be there eventually."

He couldn't help sighing, as his body relaxed and pulled his mind toward oblivious slumber. " 'M going to miss you fellows."

"You won't have time to," Merlin whispered, with a note of laughter catching in his voice. "Pity us - we'll have to learn to manage without you."

"Won't be hard," Gwaine muttered, as his eyes slipped closed, and his friend's murmured protest faded into unconsciousness.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Evidently Gwaine didn't need as much rest as Merlin expected. The room still held the warm glow of late afternoon when he opened his eyes, and blinked them to focus. It was very still. Restful. But also much larger and more richly decorated than anywhere Gwaine could remember sleeping, and the reminder drew him to full wakefulness.

He drew in a deep breath, feeling the pull around his ribs and the skin of his back. Dinner would be uncomfortable but manageable; not imminent, judging by the light, but he was wearing only trousers. That thought led to others, of suitable clothing and someone to provide it and probably help put it on…

Servants. Lordship.

He groaned to his elbows and knees, then rolled awkwardly to his side past the middle of the bed, the covers bunching and twisting at his waist.

Elena was seated in the chair at the bedside, wearing a very light blue gown that suited her, the sides of her hair pulled behind her head. Quiet and calm, with a book just folded closed in her lap – but her eyes held doubts and questions.

And she was his wife, so… he had no idea how to act.

"Ah," he said lamely. "Hello."

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, betraying genuine concern. "Merlin said he healed you, but that you'd be tired for a while."

"Yeah, much better, thanks. And he did." They waited uncomfortably, man and wife. Gwaine propped his head on his fist and ventured, "And you? They didn't hurt you?"

"I didn't get much sleep, but…" She gave him a nervous smile. "They didn't touch me. And Veramay was all right, after warning the knights, so she was with me."

"Good," he said.

Another awkward pause.

"Would you like some – water, or something?" Elena offered, fluttering one hand toward a side table supporting a couple of silver flagons and a handful of matching cups. "Or, I think there's some wine…"

Gwaine grinned suddenly. Why should they both feel constrained to be conventional, now? He said frankly, "Would you like me to get out of bed and dressed, before we talk?"

She dropped her eyes as her color rose – briefly. "It is ridiculous, isn't it? I'm sorry – no, if you're more comfortable there, please stay."

And maybe she'd feel a little more in control, if she was the one upright and fully dressed. "I should be apologizing, not you," he told her. "I had rather thought yesterday might be considered play-acting for Odin's benefit, but they tell me… you're stuck with me."

"You're not angry," she said, looking at him. "Disappointed? Or thrilled at the prestige of the position and full of plans for your newfound wealth?"

Gwaine snorted. "You could just put me on the payroll along with your other knights, and I'd be satisfied. We don't even have to –" A sudden thought struck him horrified. "This isn't your chamber, is it?"

She looked around as if she'd forgotten which room she was in. "No, it's not. But... you don't… _want_ , to share my room?" Shy and uncertain.

"I thought you might not want to share mine," Gwaine said gently – and offered her an excuse and a grin. "My feet smell bad, remember?"

Elena glanced absently down the length of the bed. "I don't remember my mother," she said. "My father never was interested in courting again, either. I don't know – how these things are done, usually, arranged marriages, but –"

"I swear to you," Gwaine interrupted, rising onto his elbow. "I won't pressure you or force you to do anything you don't want to do, I won't so much as lay a finger on you that's unwelcome. Ever."

She nodded, twisting her fingers in her lap. "The thing is… I don't want to be lonely, either. When I was unwed, I could always hope to – to meet someone I could love. And now…"

"Now it's just me."

Elena nodded again, and Gwaine studied her critically, realizing the courage that lay behind her presence in his room, and this admission. Courage he'd already seen when she'd risked coming to warn Arthur, when she'd stood up straight and looked Odin in the eye. Taking a chance himself – she had no real reason to trust him, after all, he patted the mattress beside him in invitation.

"Will you?" he said. "Get a little more comfortable. We aren't strangers, after all – and we could be more than friends."

She looked at him a moment, then hiked her skirts and shifted from chair to bed, leaving her book abandoned in the seat. Tucking already-shoeless feet under the hem of the blue dress, she pulled the twist of her hair self-consciously over one shoulder.

"I have never been in love," he confided, "but I imagine marriage works best when two people can be honest with each other, and speak openly. Which is, I admit, a prospect more terrifying than facing Odin's warriors in the lists. But I'm your husband now, so I'll do my best… Ask me anything you'd like."

"You don't want to stay here, do you," she said. "You want to return to Camelot with your friends."

He was glad she hadn't said, _You don't want to be married, do you_. Because that was a moot point now in any case. Wanting things to be different than what they were – dissatisfaction that was allowed to linger never made anyone happy. And he did want Elena to be happy, in spite of how all this had turned out.

"I'll make new friends," he said. "It'll be a while til it feels like home here, and I'll probably always worry about my friends' safety and wellbeing when I'm not with them."

"Camelot isn't far," she said, unconsciously echoing Merlin's sentiment. "We can go often, and stay long."

"Yes we can," he said, turning her suggestive tone into fact. "You don't have many ladies in your court here, do you?" She shook her head. "Well, we're gathering a few more – and I'm sure they'll be happy to include you in their number, now… Ask me something else, then?"

Her eyes dropped slightly, and she reached forward – but stopped before actually touching him. "What's that?"

The cord he wore around his neck, bearing two pieces of actual and symbolic worth. Gwaine dropped his head so he could use the fingers of both hands on the knot.

She added, "Oh, you don't have to take it off, I just wondered – it seemed a safe and not terribly personal thing to talk about…"

"It's all right." The knot gave, and he slipped the gold ring off the cord. "This should be yours anyway, as my wife. It was my father's."

She took it reverently, turning it over between her fingers. "Tell me about him? Why do you have this?"

"He gave it to my mother, the last time we saw him before he died. She gave it to me, and I've had it since then."

"I'm so sorry, about your father," Elena said, and meant it. "How old were you?"

"Twelve. Almost thirteen." Almost old enough to be taken as a squire to one of the other knights. Almost, and not quite. "I left home two years later to earn my living with my father's sword. I'm lucky I survived as long as I did, til I met Arthur and Merlin and everything changed."

She made another sound of sympathetic interest, studying the ring – then stopped. "This has a crest," she said. He didn't answer, and she met his eyes. "And you didn't have to ask about Gawant's succession rights – and I heard you giving those commands to the pups." He held her gaze a moment longer; she said slowly, "Gwaine – who was your father?"

"Sir Geart," he said, speaking the name aloud for the first time since that day in court, and his king had given their whole family a sneer to rival any of Odin's. "A knight of Caerleon."

"But you served Arthur," she said, and realized, "He doesn't know."

"It never was important," Gwaine said, and watched her test the size of the ring, finally leaving it on her right thumb. "But at least now you know your husband isn't totally ignorant when it comes to administrative duties." Just totally disinclined – but he could change that for her. He probably would have changed that for Arthur sooner or later, anyway, if Arthur wanted him for a senior, commanding patrols or garrisons.

"That wouldn't have mattered to me," Elena said, slightly troubled. "Of all the knights I could possibly have ended up married to, unexpectedly, I'm glad it was you, after all."

Gwaine blinked and said stupidly, "Really?"

"Everyone else is so embarrassed when I'm clumsy, or when I say the wrong thing. Or they pretend not to notice, which is awkward. But you just laugh and make me feel like – all that is normal, and fine."

"Because it is," Gwaine said. Maybe not among royalty, but very few of them could earn his admiration and respect. "Listen, if there's something I love about you already, it's your lack of pretense. Your willingness to overlook flaws in manners."

Her skin flushed faintly pink and she lowered her eyes again to point and ask, "What's that piece, then?"

A silver disc the size of the ball of his thumb, with an arc missing from the bottom and a hole punched for the cord. He handed it to her so she could examine the markings engraved on it.

"A symbol for strength," he said. He'd had it years before he and Merlin had followed Arthur on his knight's quest; it hadn't surprised him that the odd little bridge-keeper had mentioned his personal strived-for virtue. Much. "I needed the reminder a lot of times after I left home. A skinny boy trying to do a man's job, learn what I needed to know fast enough to stay alive. I'd hold onto this and tell myself, there's more kinds of strength than just physical, muscle and bone."

She cast a glance along his body – it was probably involuntary, but he was naked to the waist and she was _his_. Shy but willing young bride. Color rose in her cheeks again; he felt a similar heat low in his belly and it left him a little breathless and uncertain himself. Of course he knew _what_ to do, but it was when and how that he worried about, now.

"I like that," she told his charm. "I'm glad you told me." And leaned deliberately forward to tie the ends of the cord around his neck again.

He held very still, trying to rein in his thoughts. She smelled like sunshine. Daisies and hay, and the embroidered neckline of her dress dipped just slightly, just enough to make him think of soft skin, warmth and mutual companionship – and passion. She breathed, and her curves lifted near enough his face that he couldn't actually focus – but she moved back before he'd found his control again, and by the look in her eyes when he met them, she realized what part of her his attention had been drawn to.

"Sorry," he blurted, having never apologized for what most women he interacted with took as a compliment. Most women weren't princesses. "I'm sorry, that was –"

"If I can look at you," she said, sounding breathless herself – and let her eyes travel his body more deliberately. "I guess I can't blame you for a similar curiosity."

"Yes, but…" She was innocent, and he was _not_. He said desperately, "I want to be honest with you, but I don't want to hurt you."

He was shocked when she smiled wryly. "You've done this before?" she guessed.

"Elena, I –"

"No, don't – apologize, I just want to know if –"

"Not apologize," he said, scooting closer and taking her hand away from toying with a lacy frill on her skirt. " _Explain_. I never dallied with – the daughters of farmers or tradesmen, honest girls who'd want a husband and family, someday, if not then. I never made promises because keeping my word was one point of honor I wouldn't give up, no matter what else I did or became. The women I – got to know, were more interested in my money than in me, and to my knowledge I never hurt them in any way."

She was blushing and wouldn't look at him. He shook her hand a little, to make sure of her attention.

"Elena. Never since Arthur knighted me. Wenching might be okay for an unattached mercenary, but I'd not disgrace the knights of Camelot with public promiscuity. Tease a girl for some company, a smile and a kiss or three – but even that, I'll no longer do. Because you are my wife, and I do keep my word. I don't want you embarrassed or unhappy with my behavior."

"Do you remember how many?" she said in a low voice. "Women you've… gotten to know, I mean?"

"I do." And if he'd known that his I'll-never-wed vow was going to get turned upside down so emphatically, he'd have tried to make different choices, those days and nights. "You don't want me to tell you, do you?" Hells, he was so out of his depth with an inexperienced _wife_.

She darted him a glance. "Less than ten?"

He was relieved for her sake, that he could admit honestly, "Less than ten."

A longer look, turning into scrutiny. "And all that is over now, and you never loved any of them."

"Never did." He lifted her hand to kiss as he'd done at their abrupt vow-ceremony – her scent was clearer and sweeter, some kind of lotion or hand-cream. He closed his eyes to inhale more deeply, and turned her fingers to press his lips to her palm.

Her fingertips rubbed the whiskers on his cheek, just slightly – and when he opened his eyes again, the look on her face had changed. Lips parted, she leaned forward - hesitated, to search his eyes again for confirmation.

He knew what she wanted and didn't quite dare. So he stretched up on his elbow, tightening his grip on her hand and dropping his gaze to her mouth. And as she crossed the distance, he had a moment to panic. _She's never done this before – it should be perfect for her – not too fast not too insistent – but she's beautiful and soft and_ mine _–_

Light, momentary pressure on his mouth. He held still, and she didn't move away, so he opened the kiss. Slightly. Still just lips. And she didn't retreat, but rather moved with him – shyly and hesitating, but still… willing.

Releasing her hand to cup her cheek to keep their lips together, he rose up from his elbow to kiss her more deliberately, mold his lips around hers and touch the tip of his tongue to that pink bow-curve he could see in his mind's eye.

She made a small noise of pleasure that delighted and encouraged him, tipping her head slightly.

 _I don't deserve this_. It staggered him what trust she was placing in him. So he didn't push their pace - just a slow exploration, inviting her to learn his mouth, too – and her innocent curiosity made his blood simmer in his veins. He was pretty sure his hand was trembling, discovering the curve of her cheek, the edge of her jaw, the lobe of her ear with an unseen earring, hidden behind the soft and flower-scented curls of her hair.

Then she lifted her hand to grip his forearm, and he jerked back with a hiss at the pain that flared from the cut Merlin had stitched instead of healing.

Her eyes were wide, and those entirely-kissable lips dropped open. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to - I don't know what I was –"

"It's fine," he managed. Nearly incoherent himself, but for other reasons. _Slow down, make it perfect._

"It's not," she contradicted, and now there were tears in her eyes. "I want you to be pleased with me, only I don't know what I'm doing, and –"

"You don't need to please me," Gwaine told her, feeling something in the middle of his chest wince at her distress. "Really. You're beautiful and sweet and I meant it when I said I won't touch you if you're not ready. We don't have to rush… Here." He shifted and rested back against the pillows. "Just lay down here beside me. And we don't have to touch and we don't have to talk – we'll just get used to being together. All right?"

Her expression said, _I'm not so sure about this_ , but she rearranged her legs and laid herself down carefully next to him. Not touching, except he felt her hair brush against his; he closed his eyes and turned his face to her and breathed in deeply.

"Tell me a story," she suggested, sounding a bit tense and breathless again. Maybe the silence was more nerve-wracking than soothing, for her. "Tell me how you know Gilli."

"I met him coming to Camelot for a tournament," Gwaine said.

She shifted her weight on the bed again – closer rather than further, he thought, and though having his eyes closed made him feel tired in spite of all the sleep he'd gotten, the realization shot through him that he could have _this_ every night for the rest of his life. He couldn't help smiling. Funny how destiny had better ideas for his life than he ever could.

"Talked him out of using magic to compete in front of Uther Pendragon – Arthur knew about Merlin by then, so he was a lot more perceptive, too, and probably would have suspected Gilli, at least…"

She murmured agreement; she was very close. "Can I – touch you?" she whispered.

His heart skipped, and his mouth went suddenly dry.

"Of course you can, I'm your husband," he said, making his words sound a lot easier than they felt. And shivered at the light brush of her fingertips over the curve of muscle in his shoulder, down his arm. "As long as you don't tickle," he warned, opening one eye to squint at her. She giggled – and snorted – and covered her mouth. He grinned and relaxed again, perfectly contented. "Remind me to tell you my favorite joke, sometime – I love how you laugh."

He also rather loved this being-honest thing, more than his usual being-charming thing. He could try that later, when she knew him better and would realize what he was doing, trying to make her smile or agree to kiss him. Her fingers trailed back up his arm and across his collarbone, leaving sparks in their wake that faded to lingering warmth. And she wasn't even _trying_ to arouse him; how would it feel when –

"Anyway, where was I? Oh, Gilli – so I talked him into giving Camelot a pass and coming to spend a few days with me and Merlin, instead…"

Shyly she shifted again, laying her cheek on his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck. Her hand finding his to twine their fingers together, and the softness of her body pressed against his side. He held still, and she relaxed, exhaling with a sigh.

"I'm glad you two kept him out of trouble," she said. "I think my maid – likes him." Her comment was interrupted by an audibly obvious yawn.

He chuckled, liking the way he felt but feeling no sense of urgency to persuade her to more. They had all their lives, didn't they. To _make_ love. "Tired?"

"Guess so." She snuggled a little closer. "You're warm."

Once, in a tunnel beneath the fortress of Fyrien, he'd looked at the skeleton of an unidentified soldier and thought about what might have happened to him had his father not died, had his king not betrayed. More than just continued life, he'd found a king worth serving, the best of friends in a unique sorcerer – and now it seemed that his life had led him to an extraordinary marriage, also.

"Go to sleep, then," he whispered, reaching to cup her face and turning to kiss her hair.

She mumbled something drowsily, and he decided to obey the pull of slumber again himself. The rest of the world could wait.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What is he doing? I told him he wasn't supposed to miss –"

"Ssh, Arthur! Look… No, just leave them, it's fine."

"What's Godwyn going to say when neither of them shows up for dinner?"

"What can he say? They're married."

"… He looks happy. Doesn't he? They both look happy. I'm glad they had each other to… _help_ , getting through this…"

"Your time's coming, Arthur, I promise. Now – get out of here. Let's just let them sleep – they've earned it."

"Hmph. But in the morning –"

" _Out_ , Arthur."

 **A/N: At this point, I want to say – even though Gwaine's basically moved away from Camelot, he is by no means finished with Arthur and the Round Table – or even this story… And next up, the Merthian we've all been waiting for! (Gosh, I hope it satisfies…)**


	13. Mithian

**Part IV: Mithian and Merlin**

 **Chapter 13: Mithian**

Clear cold air could sometimes affect clarity of mind and a freshening of the spirit, and that was what Mithian was after when she went riding that morning, two guards wrapped against the wind and trailing her by as many paces as were necessary for her to feel alone.

Breath snorted white from her horse's nostrils as she stopped on a rise overlooking part of the Labyrinth, and she reached into her saddlebags for the journey-rations she had taken for her noon meal.

Waiting was a woman's burden, her mother had taught her, though she didn't remember her father riding out for battle, herself. Her brothers did, but they were boys – men, now – and could vent their frustration in training for the day when they would ride out, themselves.

It was hard not to have this choice, any longer. Growing up a king's only daughter, she'd expected someday a decision as each of her sisters-in-law had made – to say yes or no when a proposal of a marriage-alliance arrived. But now she was waiting to hear whether her proposal – her father's proposal, Nemeth's proposal – would be accepted, or denied.

King Arthur was amenable to a union sealed by marriage, they knew that already. Though they had offered for a name that was not on his list of prospective husbands…

 _What if he says yes_ , Mithian had asked both her sisters when first they'd returned to Nemeth to wait, nearly a month ago now. Amylia and Crissa, both mothers, had exchanged fondly smirking looks.

 _Babies_ , Amylia had said, balancing Crissa's infant on her own starting-to-show-again belly. So matter-of-factly that Mithian had rolled her eyes instead of blushing.

 _You'll move to Camelot_ , Crissa had added. She'd come to them from the Western Isles, herself, the marriage to Rodor's second son Ybor arranged, as was Antor and Amylia's. _But then, you'll move to Camelot anyway_ …

 _What if he says no._

Both her brothers had scoffed loyally at the idea. Her father's reaction was milder – but unchanged as the days turned into weeks with no word, which meant at the very least that Camelot, or Merlin, wasn't sure. _Then we will choose another_ , Rodor had said.

Far too easily, to her mind. Perhaps if a rejection had been immediately forthcoming, she might have turned to another choice with equanimity. But now, she could no longer remember all the names Arthur had suggested, and none of the faces, save one.

She'd been thinking on the whole idea for too long, she recognized that after it was too late to contemplate wedding another in Camelot without a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She thought of marriage and she thought of Merlin, and her mind had connected the two involuntarily and it was bordering on ridiculous. She had seen him for a single day; a person – even a young princess who'd never before fixed attention or hopes on a particular man – could _not_ become emotionally attached in so short a time.

But three weeks followed. And she told both her sisters – both her brothers – more than once, of the collapse of the ruin, and how he'd saved her. How his magic had healed his friend the knight, immediately and thoroughly, though he'd never even heard the incantation before, and showed very little of the attendant strain and fatigue afterward. She told them how he'd tended the slight wound on her leg – healed to faint pink skin, now.

What she hadn't told anyone was how it felt – shock-fear-excitement – when he'd shielded her suddenly and unhesitatingly with his own body. In a way she'd never felt anyone's body before, and couldn't forget. She hadn't told anyone how he'd looked at her and addressed her – as a person, as someone he cared about even though she was a stranger – because he hadn't realized she was royalty. She couldn't forget that, either, couldn't remember when last that happened. Everyone knew who she was, in Nemeth, since her birth.

Mithian gathered her reins as her milk-white mare clattered over the causeway to the grassy slope before the entrance of the palace set atop the hill, realizing with vexation that she'd done it again – wasted clarity on returning to the thoughts she'd wanted freedom from.

 _What if he says…_

Her attention was drawn to the side of the yard nearest the stables. A horse she didn't recognize – dust brown, with darker legs, mane, and tail – led by a man she couldn't identify, speaking to the steward's assistant. The stranger wore boots and cloak against the cold and for travel, she thought; above the hood lying wrinkled around his neck his hair was wind-tousled black. His profile, as he spoke to the steward's assistant, wanted her to recognize him.

"Who is that?" she said, mostly to herself.

Forgetting her two guards – one of whom turned his horse and encouraged it into a trot over the grassy sward, approaching the steward's assistant as the black-haired stranger turned away to the stables with his horse. Mithian dismounted, herself, pushing curls and braid back over the collar of her black fur cloak. Her second guard took the reins from her.

"Thank you," she told him absently, then turned to meet her first guard, returning.

"The stranger is a messenger," she was told.

"From where?"

"Camelot."

Mithian stood very still. After a moment, her guards took their three horses away and she was left with the cloud of her breath and a slight stinging in nose and cheeks and ears from the cold. The squeak of her leather gloves over the noise of the busy courtyard.

Messenger from Camelot. What if they say yes, what if they don't.

He didn't emerge from the stable, the messenger that nudged her memory, so she allowed her steps to take her there; usually the stable-lads would care for the mounts of such visitors, leaving them free to address business immediately.

The stable was one of her favorite places in the whole capital, spread out over this hill and two others, generous grassy yards between house and buildings rather than cobblestones or muddy alleys. She loved the calm and the smell of oil and straw and horse, the warmth of the big equine bodies and the placid intelligence in their eyes.

It was one of Gunnor's favorite places, too. Her elder brother's eldest son, the someday heir to the throne. Too young yet to really appreciate the weight of that responsibility, but beginning to be old enough to feel it. He came here often, she thought, for the tranquility of the horses well cared-for, the feeling of power at rest.

She saw her nephew the moment she slipped through the gap in the great sliding door at one end of the long low building. He was seated in the loose straw on the floor at the head of the row of stalls to her right, but he wasn't alone.

The black-haired messenger from Camelot, whose profile she did recognize, for a pulse-stopping, heart-in-throat moment. He crouched before the seated prince, a pair of bags beside him, hands held up and fingers spread. He wore no gloves, and the braid at Gunnor's temple swung as he leaned forward, pursed his lips, and blew at the flame dancing atop the messenger's – the sorcerer's – left forefinger.

It winked out – but another immediately sprang up on the smallest finger of the other hand. Gunnor chuckled – a happy-child sound that made Mithian smile through her own excited curiosity – rocking to blow that flame out as well.

Instead of vanishing, the flame exploded into a tiny puff of sparks that startled Mithian nearly as much as Gunnor, who leaned back a moment, eyes wide and mouth dropped open. A warm, deep chuckle escape the sorcerer – friendly and reassuring amusement – and he didn't lower his hands.

Gunnor studied him a moment – all future-crown-prince intensity – and Mithian noticed for the first time that the smallest finger on the outstretched left hand was shortened by the last joint.

Then the little boy filled his lungs and expanded his cheeks, blowing across all ten offered fingers like a row of candles to be extinguished at once – and ten tongues of flame jumped up saucily enough to make Gunnor fall back in a fit of giggles.

"Playing with fire in the stables?" Mithian said, without any reproach in her tone. Of course he was good enough with the magic that it was no danger.

Merlin twisted around in his crouch to look up at her, startled at her identity more than her presence, she thought, as though he'd been aware that someone had entered and paused to watch.

"Bye, Auntie!" Gunnor said, getting his feet under him and darting down the middle aisle between the horse-stalls toward the far end, where her guards were turning their mounts over to stable-hands.

"Princess," Merlin said, by way of greeting, bouncing up from his crouch.

She realized she'd forgotten exactly how tall he was, and her pulse thrummed to have him _here_. So close, she couldn't help thinking again of how he'd breathed, atop her, and moved to free and save her. She distracted herself, noticing a slight bruise and scab-topped cut at the corner of his eyebrow.

"Do you have something against proper introductions?" she asked him, smiling so he would know she was teasing. Hoping that he was – she thought he was – the sort of person who could take teasing in similar spirit.

He grinned, his blue eyes lighting. "I never meet people under _normal_ circumstances," he told her. "Ask anyone I know – Arthur, Gaius, Gwen. Lancelot, Ally… _you_."

"Ha," she said; it was true enough in her case, anyway. "But if you'd given the steward's assistant your name, they'd have taken your horse for you, and had a servant to carry your bags."

"Ah," he said, looking down and nudging one of his bags with the toe of his boot. "Yes, I suppose so. But – this year - people react differently when I say _Nice to meet you I'm Merlin_."

She thought about how he'd been a servant for several years. And before that, a peasant in a farming village. One of her few doubts rose – and she countered it with the memory of his command of the ruined castle's collapse.

"Your name is not unknown," she said, understanding a bit, how he felt. "Stories will circulate."

Color showed briefly along his cheekbones; he dropped his eyes to bend in retrieving his bags – the two sets of drawstrings tied together to balance when thrown over the back of a saddle, or a man's shoulder.

"I doubt I shall ever become accustomed to that," he told her. "Arthur is usually very proud to announce his name – if by chance he goes unrecognized initially – though the satisfaction in his name and title is less arrogant, these days."

"He did not seem arrogant to me," Mithian said. "Just confident." The way he smiled made her think again, a bit uncomfortably, of the gap between the perception of the royalty and the peasantry, though there was also the sympathy of comprehension in his look, rather than a more ignorant resentment. "I sometimes feel like, public recognition is something to be endured, rather than courted."

"The people want to love and respect and admire their rulers," he said softly. "It is a good royal, who makes that easy by being aware of regard, and respecting the relationship and necessity, in turn."

Mithian let her breath sigh out of her chest silently. She did think, in his position, he'd have the opportunity to observe and comprehend all the disparate classes of people – but she was glad to see that he was also a thoughtful and compassionate man. That his past, what they'd heard of it - from Arthur and from others – had uniquely disposed him to acceptance rather than judgment. She _liked_ him, all over again. And hoped the more strongly that he had come to say yes.

Other questions occurred to her also, but the sensitivity of hostess prevailed, for the moment.

"We did not know you were coming," she said, angling her body and gesturing for him to accompany her out of the stables. "Or we would have had a room ready and waiting for you."

"I don't need much, truly," he said, leaning his free shoulder against the stable door to widen the opening for her.

"I'll send for our steward," she said. "Someone can carry your things, bring you food and wine and draw you a bath. I'll go to my father myself, and let him know that –"

Merlin made a noise of polite dissent, to interrupt without offending. "I can wait, for all that," he said. "If it wouldn't be inappropriate? I'd prefer to speak to your father as soon as it's convenient for him."

Mithian stopped on the green lawn between the stables and the arched main entrance of the palace above them. And looked at him – thick black hair with a hint of curl over his brow and behind his ears, deep blue eyes, full mouth broad shoulders slender and quick and earnest – _husband_. Maybe. She shivered.

"I have – quite a lot to say to you, also," he added, aware of the awkwardness and his cheeks showing pink. "Just – probably your father, first?"

Yes, that was probably appropriate, whether the long-awaited answer was yes, or no.

"I think he'll be in the audience chamber," she said, moving to lead him again. Trying not to think of that one small answer that would change their lives forever, that he knew and she didn't; trying to think of something else to say instead of allowing pregnant silence. "You… came by yourself? No escort?"

He caught her sideways glance as they climbed the grassy rise to the palace doors, and grimaced. "I don't actually need anyone else for protection," he said, and there was nothing of boasting in his statement. "I have several good friends among Arthur's knights, but they all seem to be occupied recently with –" he cleared his throat and gave her a wry smile – "betrothals and marriage. So I came alone."

They reached the main doors, and the double guard – identity concealed behind helmet-veils of chainmail – reached to open them with simultaneous ceremony. Mithian caught her companion's glance at his boots before he followed her onto the marble of the floor, as if afraid of tracking dirt onto the polished surface – and decided she preferred his respectful caution to someone too arrogant to care. But if she said, _Don't worry it can be cleaned with magic_ , would she embarrass him unduly.

"Arthur argued," Merlin added, and she held her peace, choosing instead to smile at his fondly-mocking tone. "I think he thought I would be lonely."

He followed her through the front portico, past the steward's chamber; Mithian signaled the guard at his doorway, and the man immediately turned to pass the message, _Ready a guest-chamber_.

"I think I envy you that," Mithian said. "In theory, at least. There are moments I'd like to be left alone, to be capable of something like traveling on my own – but then I recall the actual dangers and hardships, and I'm rather glad for companions at times when they're really needed."

"I think you could do it," Merlin said to her, with a little smile and a twinkle in his eye. "Make a journey alone. If you had to."

Not a compliment she'd ever been paid before. But it warmed her in a unique way, for being both unusual and sincere.

"You didn't run into any trouble, did you?" Mithian asked, realizing that they'd both paused just outside the door to the main receiving chamber, and leading him forward again.

"Why do you… _oh_."

She smiled, pleased and complimented by his reaction, especially since she'd seen the citadel of Camelot where he lived. The grand chamber was cool this close to winter, but still warmed by sunlight from the windows set in the tri-domed roof. The echoes were awe-inspiring without being noisy or overwhelming; only a few petitioners – of the merchant class, judging by their robes – remained before her father at his throne at the far end of the room. The columns supporting the second-floor chambers ringed the main room, dividing the royal family's apartments to one side, and guest chambers to the other. Behind this chamber lay the rest of the rooms in common use for residents – dining hall, banquet hall, the library and infirmary and kitchens.

Tugging off her gloves, she slipped her hand into his free elbow to guide him forward; he obeyed, his eyes lifted to the gold-leaf engravings that bounded the dome-windows.

"That bruise on your temple," she said. It was either fading, or still developing; she couldn't tell if the scab over the cut was new or old without looking much closer than was proper.

"No, that was – trouble, in Gawant," he said absently, still absorbing the grandeur of the best room in Nemeth. "News for your father, also. Um." He shook himself a little, and looked down at her. "And you – you are well?"

"Of course," she said, as they neared the little knot of men, enough for them to loosen, aware of her advance.

"I mean, after – your injury at the ruins?"

She couldn't help smiling, remembering that he'd been more discomfited to realize her rank, than to have a ruined castle collapse over his head. She wondered what he'd do if she teasingly offered him another look at her leg – though that would probably not be fair, if he still felt the difference in their status, and especially if he had not come to say _yes_.

"It's perfectly fine," she said. And meant it, though the new pink skin still contrasted visibly to the rest of her leg. "Here's my father."

Rodor approached them, waving dismissal to the others gathered – they bowed away as the king came to Mithian and her companion with no need for introduction.

"Merlin of Camelot," Rodor said, surprised and pleased as she had been. He grasped the sorcerer's shoulders to stop his bow from deepening. "An unexpected treat. You're not alone, are you?"

"As a matter of fact, sire, I am," Merlin answered. "Though I do have an explanation for that –" he glanced toward Mithian, and her father's brows lifted with a sound of realization. "I hope I'm not interrupting you – I thought it best that we speak as soon as possible, but I'm happy to wait if you're –"

"Nonsense," Rodor declared, signaling to someone at the edge of the room; Mithian leaned to see that the steward's assistant had entered the room unobtrusively behind them. "I would happily have waited for you to refresh yourself, my young friend, but if there are words that burden your heart, best free yourself. Refan can take your bags to the bedchamber that is to be yours for your visit, and you must make use of them and him for every need and convenience."

"Yes, my lord," Merlin said, relinquishing the bags when the long-nosed, mild-mannered Refan reached for them. "Thank you very much."

"Now," Rodor said, genially attentive.

Merlin gave her another look that seemed shy, suddenly, and she found herself – in spite of her desperate curiosity – saying, "I will wait just over here, father, that you might speak privately."

"I would suggest that you freshen up as well, my dear," her father said with fond humor, "after your ride this morning, but I'd not ask you to bear further delay." He lifted Mithian's hand to kiss her knuckles with a sympathetic smile – but as she turned to cross to the gallery, she heard Merlin begin to apologize.

"I am very sorry, my lord, that we have not responded sooner to your offer of union between our two kingdoms…"

She pretended not to hear, and after a moment it was no longer pretense. It was too bad that he was sensitive to Rodor's quip at her expense; she hoped very much that Merlin was not someone easily hurt or confused – such joking happened often in their large family, and if –

"Is that him?" a male voice demanded in a low tone. Mithian whirled to see her eldest brother, Prince Regent Antor, his narrow face and piercing brown eyes accentuated by the way he kept the hair on the sides of his head clipped, and braided the rest thickly down his neck. "Gunnor just told me about the stranger he met in the stable – is that him? The sorcerer of Camelot?"

"Yes," Mithian said, turning to join him in watching their father speak to Merlin, the younger man unself-conscious in the earnest intensity of whatever he was saying.

"Yes, you mean like – _yes_?" Antor pressed.

"No. I don't know – he came to say, I think, but he wanted to speak to Father first."

"Good," Antor approved, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes.

In the middle of the room, King Rodor also crossed his arms, obscuring the second square golden clasp of his black knee-length jacket. He directed his eyes to the floor, bushy white eyebrows drawn down and together as he listened, nodding periodically. Merlin seemed to have calmed slightly – and maybe slowed his rush of words.

"He wears no armor," Antor observed.

"He's a sorcerer," Mithian countered. "And you're not wearing any at the moment, either."

The prince regent made a skeptical noise. "He wears no ornament either, no ring or pendant – is he so little valued in Camelot by the young Pendragon?"

Mithian scoffed; Arthur was probably the same age as Ybor, the brother between her and Antor, only a few years younger than the prince regent. "He's wearing his cloak," she said, "you can't see if he's got layers of gems and gold around his neck."

Antor snorted. "His head is bare."

"His boots are new, and his cloak," she returned.

Her brother shifted his weight, and squinted as if unconvinced. "Are you sure, Mithian," he said doubtfully – and she knew he wasn't talking about Merlin's clothes anymore, even before he added, "This one's for you?"

"I think that's up to him to decide, at this point," she said softly.

Antor grunted, and it was not a sound that said he was favorably impressed. "Make sure he comes to dinner, won't you?" he said. "Yes or no – we'll take him apart and see what he's made of."

Mithian opened her mouth to protest – then didn't. "I think he can handle us," she told her brother.

Antor eyed her a moment, then sighed and grabbed a handful of her hair at her nape to lean forward and kiss her forehead. "More happiness to you," he said. "See you later."

She watched him retreat again, tall and muscular and a perfect knight, and was glad that Amylia had wanted that in a husband. She couldn't be more pleased with Antor – as evidenced by her fourth expectancy swelling her frame slowly day by day – and he was delighted to give her pleasure. Ybor and Crissa had a different sort of love – sometimes saying the most outrageous things to make each other laugh, but laughing often and unreservedly together.

"Mithian," her father called.

As she turned, her heart flipped in her chest. She wanted this – but what if their personalities clashed instead of matching? She knew of lords or knights and their wives who endured such a miserable reality – even some who had initially married for mutual attraction.

They both watched her approach, and though she felt self-conscious at the attention, she could tell that both Rodor and Merlin were relaxed with each other – so they had come to some understanding. And she was now to learn what it was.

"Yes, Father," she said, tucking the gloves that were still in her hand, into her belt at the side of her hip.

"You and I have already spoken of this," her father said, in his audience-chamber voice. Which differed from his royal-proclamation voice and his family-dinner voice. Between casual and formal. "But Camelot has concerns they would have answered…"

She met Merlin's eyes, and raised her brows, expectant and unoffended. It wasn't _no_.

"Because my name was not on the list Arthur gave for your consideration," Merlin explained, with a trace of shy color. "I – we – wanted to hear the reason for your offer, personally."

It was a good thing she had talked to her father about this. And that she had been raised to keep composure under any circumstances, and never to be caught without the right words.

"We have knights in Nemeth," she told him. "None of them interests me more than another. In coming to Camelot with the offer of marriage in mind, I hoped to meet someone that I _would_ find interesting, more than another. The knights and lords' sons that King Arthur suggested were proper and polite and courteous –"

Merlin blushed, and dropped his eyes, and Mithian read his thought, _And I wasn't…_

She put her hand on his arm to interrupt his embarrassment, and continued earnestly, "But none of them were special. You were different, I was curious, I found myself considering you, above the others."

"Because of the magic," he said, in a low private voice even though her father was with them, and it held the hint of a question.

And she understood that, too; it was part of the reason her father had agreed when she first said, _what about Merlin_. Because there was an obvious strategic advantage for all of them, to have such a magic-user in the family. She had seen his magic – fast, strong, adaptive. Reflexive. It wasn't everyone who could make a new spell perform flawlessly as he had in healing his friend Sir Lancelot.

"Not only that," she told him, careful not to deny a truth his king at least must have seen immediately. "We were impressed by what Arthur's done this year, altering his father's laws and lifting Camelot's ban on magic. I've seen the burden you both bear, that of slow change by influence and example and I think – having been raised in a kingdom that welcomes magic – I can be of use in Camelot, in this endeavor. More so than simply keeping an estate running smoothly or bearing a knight's heirs."

He'd raised his head as she spoke, a new light coming into his eyes – and her father smiled when he glanced at him. "I understand that we understand each other?" Merlin made a little bow, and the king added, "I'll leave you to speak to my daughter in private about the rest – and you'll be sure to join us for dinner, later?"

"Of course," Merlin agreed, though she could see a question in his eyes.

"I'll pass him off to Refan in time for both of us to prepare," Mithian promised her father.

He took her arms gently, kissed her forehead much as Antor had done, and left them with another affectionately knowing smile.

Merlin watched the king move beyond earshot, then ventured to ask, "Us?"

Mithian smiled. "My family. Two brothers and their wives, and five going on six children."

"Ally said you have a big family."

"And you don't?" She gestured toward a set of padded benches in the south gallery, and he ambled agreeably at her side.

"No. Just my mother… and now Ally and Lord Bernard as my cousins."

Mithian resolved to ask again another time, when they'd gotten to know each other better and he might feel more comfortable revealing details and specifics. They reached the bench and she seated herself, looking up at him as he hesitated – for whatever reason – to join her.

"Can I ask you something, Merlin?"

"Anything, my lady," he said immediately.

Reminding her that he probably thought more of the differences in their background – upbringing and status – than she did. She didn't want him to answer because he felt compelled, as an order he was required to obey, but because he wanted to. Only she didn't know how to convey that to him without the possibility of embarrassment on either side. So she patted the bench in wordless invitation, and waited til he had loosened his cloak and pushed it back to join her, before speaking.

"Do you really think so little of your value in a prospective marriage," she said softly, "to believe that we offered for your magic, only?"

Quick sideways glance flitted away to marble swirls beneath his boots and told her definitively, yes. And that, in her opinion, was too damn bad. She began to wonder if his lack of self-respect was due to his time in service to Uther's son, but his next comment threw her off the trail of thought.

"Something – happened, while we were in Mercia," he said. "King Alined attempted to have me – compromised."

"So that Camelot would not have the benefit or advantage of your magic and expertise?" she guessed. She'd never met the man, but they heard rumors here of all the kingdoms, not just Camelot.

"Expertise." He made a face. "Gaius is the expert, Highness, I'm just the dogsbody." She elbowed him, and he smiled, swaying with the nudge. "Arthur told me, one of our senior knights advised him, it might be better if I, as the most visible and known sorcerer in Camelot, was not an unmarried young man."

Mithian made a thoughtful noise. "Well, they can't have you enchanting all the villages lasses to fall in love with you, can they?"

He made a movement like he was about to elbow her back for the quip, but stopped himself short of actually touching her. She was sorry for that, too, but hopefully he'd relax, seeing how they all interacted with each other at dinner.

"So… did you come to say yes, then?" she asked, squeezing her fingers together surreptitiously in her lap.

"Yes, but…"

Rush of relief, checked suddenly. She frowned slightly and repeated, " _But_?"

"I thought, maybe… I asked your father, and he thought it was all right… Maybe we could wait to enter an official betrothal? for a while?" He searched her eyes and she didn't know what he saw; she didn't know what to think. "Arthur says he can manage without me for the winter – things are usually quiet in Camelot while snow's on the ground – and your father very generously invited me to stay, so that… we can get to know each other, first? I'd… kind of like to do my own asking, if that doesn't offend you? Only, in Ealdor, when a fellow liked a girl particularly, he'd ask to see her, take a walk of an evening, or sit in the village square together. Bring her gifts, maybe… Before he asked her father for permission to ask her to promise herself to him. And then he'd go to work making sure he had a place to offer her, and means to support her…"

The light was waning, but she was pretty sure Merlin was an agreeable shade of pink. She liked that, and approved wholeheartedly – and she was sure he didn't have to worry about a home and income. But…

"How often did a fellow change his mind, after getting a girl's hopes up?" she asked. "And instead of speaking to her father of marriage, ask another girl to take a walk?"

He stopped and thought, then grinned. "Probably as often as the girl decided she didn't want to have to put up with that particular fellow for the rest of her life, after all."

"So this winter," Mithian said deliberately, still smiling. "You're going to stay in my village and ask me to take walks, so _I_ can change my mind about _you_?"

"You might," Merlin said. Though his lips turned up at the corners, she saw that he was essentially serious, and admired him for it. "There are things about me that you might not have known, when you made that offer."

"Your common birth, you mean?" Mithian said candidly. "We knew that. Ealdor is a farming village just over the border into what used to be Cenred's kingdom. Less than two hundred people, and little contact with the rest of the world. I would say it sounds idyllic if that wasn't the comment of a spoiled and ignorant princess. But your cousin, Lord Bernard –"

"My father married my mother according to our village's customs," he said. "But it wasn't officially recorded, so Bernard can't legally claim the relation –"

"Obviously that doesn't matter to my father," Mithian realized, though it could have been a point of contention – many nobles wouldn't bother thinking about peasant ceremonies, or lack of them, until there was a question of intermarriage – in which case, the child of such a union might easily be declared a bastard. "And I don't suppose it matters to anyone who cares about you, does it."

He shrugged, but not in disagreement, and rubbed his hands together a bit distractedly. "Okay. The… other thing I wanted to say is – I mean, say to you in confidence…"

She nodded her intention to keep whatever secrets he entrusted to her.

"We've agreed to see if we can get along as partners. Spouses. But I think I'm not wrong in assuming, Your Highness, that you're not in love with me, any more than I am with you?" He gave her another shy glance, and she shook her head, denying the unusual fluttery feeling at the top of her stomach. "Love is inexplicable. I used to think a proposal without love was hypocrisy, but… If it never happens, for us, and you're still satisfied that you'll be happy, then we can still commit to this union come spring."

And it was an unusual young man – at least among nobility and royalty – who considered love, or the woman's heart, in his contemplation of a marital bond.

"Both my brothers' marriages were arranged," Mithian said. "And they're quite happily in love with their wives, now – both of whom love them back, through some miracle." Merlin nodded and held her eyes, but said nothing, and she dared to add, "Is there a reason you think you might not… come to love me, in time?"

He exhaled, turning to put his back against the wall and gaze across the room, beginning to dim as the afternoon passed. "I was in love, once," he said. "It didn't last – she died, and her spirit passed into an enchanted lake. I spoke to her briefly, after that…"

Around the mild shock, and the sympathetic sorrow, Mithian began to wonder if she should be jealous.

He added contemplatively, "We might have been happy together, if she hadn't been taken from me. Now it's just – a special connection. A unique relationship – unbreakable but fairly tenuous ties." He met her eyes.

She nodded. Not feeling jealous, but privileged that he'd trust her with this – determined also that she'd never give him cause to regret it – and no doubt whatsoever that he'd be faithful to any vow he took.

"I never thought I'd fall in love at all," he said. "Because of my magic, and the law. Now… I don't know if it can happen twice. Or even if I…" He trailed off, then began again, and she understood he'd shifted topic slightly. "I want you to know from the very start, that I can never make any woman, my first priority. Or even second or third. I have responsibilities to Arthur and to Camelot – to Gaius, and to dragonkind – that must come before my personal happiness. Or yours, if you –"

"Merlin," Mithian interrupted, unable to keep from smiling. "I am glad to hear you say that. I respect you very much for your devotion to others that you have responsibilities toward. I understand what it means to put the king and kingdom and its people first – so my father has done, and my brothers. I have expected to enter a marriage arranged for advantage since I was very young – but that doesn't mean we can't find satisfaction and happiness in service together."

He took a deep breath, and released it quickly with palpable relief. "Yes, I guess you would understand sacrifice, in service. Though there are spoiled, self-centered princesses…"

"Which my father and brothers made sure I would never become," she finished.

"I can see that." His smile spread wide and genuine, and she counted it another compliment.

"Can I ask you something else?" she said. "Would you tell me if you change your mind? If you think our marriage would become another burden for you to bear, or if you need to return to Camelot alone?"

"I can promise to be honest with you," he offered. She rather thought, he didn't seem like the sort of person to change his mind on a whim. "I am glad also, then, that we understand each other."

"Me, too," she said. There would be lots to talk about, in the days and weeks to come – years, she hoped – lots to absorb in silent reflection alone. Her first impressions of him had been that he was a highly interesting young man – admirable, also, and she was glad they seemed to have cleared the first hurdle. "Let's find Refan – he can show you your room, and maybe there will be time for you to rest before dinner."

"Thank you, my lady," he said, standing and offering his elbow.

"Just Mithian," she told him, standing to accept the courtesy.

That would be the second hurdle, maybe, surmounting the etiquette of title usage into comfortable familiarity.

 **A/N: I think everyone will agree that Merlin &Mithian need several chapters of slow-ish romantic development? Before all hell breaks loose again…**


	14. Mithian (2)

**Chapter 14: Mithian** (part 2)

Or maybe Mithian's family would prove to be the second hurdle she and Merlin would have to overcome.

There sounded a knock on the door of her bedchamber as she sat before her mirror, watching her maid fix her hair. There hadn't been time for washing and drying, so Bronda had brushed and brushed it, and was just now finishing twisting and tying the braids back from her face into a patterned cap on the back of her head.

"Who is it?" Mithian called, first meeting Bronda's eyes in the mirror – hands busy, and she read in the maid's expression that she couldn't walk away to pull the door open for several more moments, yet. It was a confident knock, rather than tentative – she switched her gaze to the iron-bound oak door just visible at the edge of her polished-silver mirror.

"It's me," came the answer.

Bronda smirked, and Mithian rolled her eyes. One of her brothers, at least. Rodor always said, _It's your father_ , her sisters-in-law usually just entered after a quick knock, the children didn't often bother knocking – which was why Bronda barred her door when she wasn't dressed. And Merlin, she guessed, would introduce himself politely by name. If he ever came to knock on the door of her bedchamber.

"Come in," she called back.

The door opened to admit Ybor, her second-oldest brother, who leaned back against it with his hands tucked behind him. He was built just slightly larger than Antor, though his expression was guileless as a child's and displayed the sense of humor of a younger prince who didn't carry the weight of inherited responsibility. His eyes were as dark as hers, where Antor's were a lighter brown, and Ybor wore his straight black hair long enough to cover ears and neck, brushed back from his forehead, and without braids. He and Crissa both admitted frankly, this was because his wife liked to run her fingers through it – and there was usually evidence of that at least twice a day.

"So he's here," he said.

Mithian hummed affirmative as Bronda pinned the last lock of her hair.

"He came himself," Ybor added. "And alone. To accept the offer of marriage?"

"Yes, yes, and – maybe," Mithian answered lightly, standing and turning to face him.

He blinked. "Maybe? What sort of answer is that?"

"The sort that lets me change my mind if we can't get along after a single season in each other's company," Mithian answered. With her hair finished, she was ready for dinner – and Ybor looked it as well, in his black boots, trousers, and jacket adorned with gold buckles, white shirt cuffs showing at his wrists.

"Ah," Ybor said, as if experiencing the greatest enlightenment. "Then he knows he's unbearably ugly."

"No," Mithian said, grinning but reining in the inclination to giggle.

"Old, then."

"You know he's not."

"Grouchy? Wall-eyed? Crippled. Scarred?"

Mithian paused in her repetition of the negative, at his last facetious suggestion. "I don't know," she said contemplatively, recalling the one missing joint on his finger. Did that count as a scar? "Not on his face, anyway."

"Hm." Ybor studied her, head to toe, and she knew he was realizing that she wore one of her best gowns.

A bronze-colored silk with full and trailing skirts, the under-sleeve tight to her arm and the over-sleeve open to her elbow, leaving a generous drape of graceful fabric. The neckline that scooped low at the bodice with a simple copper ribbon that complemented the bronze without matching. A round ornament was tied at the base of her throat, featuring tiny rubies set in the shape of flowers, and pendant crystals like dewdrops.

"You like him," Ybor concluded quietly. "You really like him?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't have persuaded Father to make the offer," she reminded her older brother. "Please try not to scare him off, the first night?"

"If he scares that easily, he doesn't deserve you," Ybor warned.

"Go escort Crissa," Mithian ordered, yanking the door against his weight til he moved to obey.

Refan would have made sure that Merlin knew when and where to come for dinner, to the point of waiting at the chamber, knocking and entering to help their guest finish readying on time, and leading him to the proper room. They didn't have many visitors here, and when they did, scheduling matters were usually casual and up to the guest's decision but for events like this – though Mithian thought Merlin was not used to being a _guest_ in a royal palace, despite his recent promotions and his rumored visits to other kingdoms with King Arthur.

Because he was late. Only one or two minutes, but Rodor was already seated at the head of the table – servants lingering at the back doorway to serve when all the diners were in place. Mithian couldn't concentrate on what her two sisters-in-law were saying, and Antor and Ybor had arranged themselves suspiciously convenient to the open arched doorway that was the room's main entrance.

And then she could see him. In the shadow of the hall's end, and under the arch – past her brothers – hurrying toward them with eyes and fingers busy on the bottom button of his jacket.

Antor stiffened and questioned the room, "Do you smell that?"

Her sisters turned to him puzzled – Crissa actually sniffing the air curiously. Rodor's silverware clinked beside his place, and Mithian's eyes were on Merlin as he paused, next to Ybor whose back was turned on him as he faced his brother.

"I do smell that," Ybor declared. "Smells like… they're trying to keep a pig in the scullery."

Amylia inhaled sharply, catching on to the deliberate insult; Crissa smothered an unladylike snort. Mithian kept very still, watching Merlin not react.

"Smells like it got out," Antor corrected.

"Like farm manure," Ybor agreed. "Someone tracked something in."

Mithian watched Merlin glance down to his boots, and her heart sank. He wouldn't understand; he'd be embarrassed, offended…

"No, that's an ingrained smell," Antor decided. "Long exposure. Can't wash out."

"In that case, you might want to speak to your manservants about the soap they're providing for your use," Merlin spoke up, perfectly courteous. Humor lurked in innocent blue eyes; Ybor turned so that both princes were looking at the new arrival. "Providing you are using any. I can recommend an import from Camelot if you'd like – we find it removes offensive odor from any source."

And he smiled.

Crissa wasn't hiding her giggles, anymore, and Mithian could feel the same bubbling up inside.

Ybor said, " _Oh_ ," a long drawn-out sound of mock disappointment, and punched Antor's shoulder lightly. "He meant you."

"He meant _you_ ," Antor immediately contradicted.

Mithian let her smile free; it was good for her eldest brother to let go of kingdom-sized responsibilities and indulge in a bit of family silliness. And she was proud of Merlin's daring response.

"He meant both of you," Rodor interjected from his seat. "Now sit down before the food gets cold."

The men were arranged on the king's right by rank and by age, their mates – prospective, in Merlin and Mithian's case – across the table from them. Her brothers came to hold chairs for their ladies; Mithian paused as Merlin adjusted her seat to murmur at the shoulder of his deep-blue velvet jacket.

"Full points to you for that round, I think."

The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile, and he rounded the table to seat himself half a second after the king's two sons. As the kitchen servants filed into the room with covered dishes and steaming platters, Merlin said, "Your Majesty, I was given to understand your grandchildren join you for dinner, most nights?"

"Mm. They do," Rodor answered, helping himself to a section of roast chicken, carved and piled high – three of the birds altogether, Mithian estimated.

"Five going on six, I understand – you're to be congratulated, all of you," Merlin added, glancing around the table and gaining contented smiles from the mothers. Then, more tentatively, "I hope I'm not the reason for their absence tonight?"

"Of course you are," Ybor stated, serving himself from the platter in the servant's hands – then pulling the man back to select another piece, just as Merlin prepared to receive the dish. "We plan on addressing all the topics tonight that aren't fit for children's ears."

Merlin gave Mithian a worried-puzzled look – which was diverted by Amylia's _tsk_! of disapproval.

"Such as?" Crissa asked, sounding confused also.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Rodor commented, generously buttering the sizeable chunk of bread he'd torn from the great round loaf.

Mithian tried to convey support for their visitor, in and around both of them selecting their portions from the serving dishes in the hands of their silent audience.

"Such as," Ybor echoed his wife, leaning into Merlin's space to point with his dinner knife, emphatically at the last finger on Merlin's left hand. "How that happened."

"Ybor," their father said, in a tone of familiar warning. "Our guest is going to think we are all savages, here in Nemeth."

"Not at all," Merlin said, meeting Mithian's eyes, then looking at the other two ladies before addressing the king again. "After almost five years serving Arthur, and quite a lot of that time spent among his knights, I very much doubt Your Majesties can shock me."

"Can we at least try?" Antor said sardonically, eyes on his plate as he plied fork and knife.

"Someday I'll introduce you to Gwaine and Percival," Merlin answered, leaning forward to see the prince regent past Ybor. "That is, unless they find that romance tames them."

Antor snorted without looking up. Ybor lifted his head to bare all his teeth at once in a meaningful grin at his wife; beside Mithian, Crissa smothered her own snort in her napkin.

"Forgive me if that was your way of politely diverting attention," Amylia – the next queen of Nemeth and a consummate hostess - said smoothly. "But I am curious about your injury, if it is a story that can be comfortably told at-table?"

"Give the shortened version," Ybor suggested, with a devilish glint.

Rodor cleared his throat in clear admonition; Mithian wanted to kick her brother under the table, but the corners of Merlin's mouth twitched.

"Um," he said. "If you insist. It's not anything I'm ashamed of, but… after I was arrested for sorcery. Uther hired a questioner."

"Oh, this is not a conversation for dinner," Amylia said immediately.

Both princes ignored her. Ybor sat back, and Antor ducked his head to wipe his mouth on his napkin before twisting in his seat to face their guest.

"Who?" Ybor asked.

Merlin suspended his own tableware above his plate, giving Mithian a look of apology. She wanted to protest, _it's not your fault_ ; she wanted to assure him, he didn't have to say anything, but he was already turning to the other men.

"Aerldan?"

Ybor shook his head to deny knowledge of the name, but Antor straightened – and Rodor also. "Ay damn, boy," the king said calmly. "Thumbscrew, then?"

"Yes, my lord."

Mithian had to close the sight of Merlin's long slender – gentle – fingers from her eyes. Beside her, Crissa mumbled a similar oath, more femininely.

"Of course you held your tongue like a man," Antor said. "Take your secrets to the grave and damn him, and all that."

"No, actually." Mithian looked at him, hiding neither his damaged hand nor his eyes as the windows to his soul, from any of them. He added in explanation, "Arthur asked me to tell the truth. He thought it would keep the questioner from hurting me – and I did want Arthur to understand, too – but… I think Aerldan didn't believe what I told him."

"Why not?" Mithian spoke, drawing his attention to herself as one person, away from a roomful of curious strangers.

He gave her another sweet, private smile. "Arthur says I have a habit of making the truth sound ridiculously unbelievable. I think that's his excuse for never believing me until the truth is obviously trying to kill him."

"But you have magic, don't you," Amylia said, sounding genuinely distressed. "Why didn't you use it to escape the questioner?"

"Because…" Merlin laid down his silverware and leaned forward over the table. "That might have saved one man's life, but changed nothing. It was worth it, in the end, for Arthur to hear the truth about magic that his father had rejected – and now the ban is repealed in Camelot, and the laws fair for every man."

For a moment Mithian watched her brothers absorb that, frowning thoughtfully. Rodor faced his heir to say, "It is a rare knight who will submit to personal torture, just to tell his sovereign he's _wrong_."

Ybor turned in his chair to put a big hand gentle on the younger man's shoulder. "I think that deserves a pass for the rest of the night," he said, with more seriousness than he usually showed.

Amylia murmured, "Thank goodness."

"Just for tonight," Ybor clarified.

And on the heels of that, bending forward to fork a bite of chicken into his mouth, Antor added, "Welcome to the family, Merlin."

Merlin met her eyes, raising his brows slightly. She smiled – couldn't help a covert sigh of relief. Or the wave of warmth that rose to her face at her brother's assumption.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's first day in Nemeth was spent almost entirely, walking and talking, and Mithian was both surprised and pleased that her suitor proved an easy and uncomplicated companion.

Together they strolled to examine both floors of the receiving chamber quite closely – she giving explanation and sometimes a related anecdote, and he occasionally making a comparison to Camelot's citadel. She learned almost nothing of him personally, however, and began to feel that she was sharing too much of herself and her family. Boring him with her stories, even, though he never sighed or answered vaguely or looked away somewhere else.

But.

Then they dressed in cloaks and gloves and left the palace to pace around the hill. Defining outbuildings and crossing the grassy ditch circling the royal seat of power like a great waterless moat, over the natural bridge. They wandered and she pointed out the blacksmith's forge and the herbalist's garden and the tanner's vats – from a distance – and the dyer's and the weaver's, and it was almost a different Merlin at her side.

He left off calling her Princess or My Lady, and began to amuse her with stories of the common people of Camelot, quirks and quarrels and kindnesses – once or twice lapsing even further back into his past in the village of Ealdor. She began to glimpse deeper into his character, to guess that his lack of ornament was by his own choice, not his king's neglect, that his too-fine-for-a-servant clothing was a concession to Arthur's wishes to honor him and give him more. She saw that there were things about him that probably changed, through his contact with the nobility and fighting men of Camelot – and guessed that there were also things about him that would not have changed, and maybe never would.

The next day was slower and less full, as she had to think more deliberately upon destinations and sights that were new and interesting – the armorer, the dairy, the cobbler… There were people in the town spread about the capital hills that used magic in their trades – in small ways, but Merlin was interested in all of them, and Mithian was surprised to realize that dusk had come unexpectedly upon them again, and that they were once again late for dinner.

A mistake that raised eyebrows again – but as the children were at table with them, the conversation mainly centered around provision and correction for the little ones, tale-bearing of the day's events to their fathers and grandfathers. Mithian was glad to see that Merlin seemed perfectly comfortable in company with the children.

"Have breakfast with me tomorrow," Amylia whispered, as she and Crissa and a pair of nurses herded the children off toward their beds.

Mithian nodded agreement, and sat up for another hour listening to Merlin relate more of the events of his latest travels with Arthur, various changes to the governing of the other kingdoms. She noticed that Merlin didn't falter or stumble over his words in speaking to the king and princes – though of course what he told them and how he said it was affected by the fact that he wasn't a native loyal to Nemeth. He spoke carefully and honestly – sometimes thoughtfully offering a more personal observation in answer to a question from her father or brothers, sometimes respectfully declining to state an opinion.

She heard of Arthur placing knights in Alined's court and winning favor with both king and prince of Mercia. She heard of Gawant's slower-but-willing change in their policies on magic – of King Odin's treachery and defeat, and the probable ascension of Sir Isdern to Lord of that territory, someday king, but maybe that depended on Arthur's pleasure.

There were still worries, of Cenred's abandoned territory, of sullen Caerleon and the volatile Southrons and the rumor of Saxons in the north and east – but Merlin was to be in Nemeth all winter; there was no need to exhaust topics of discussion immediately.

"You are quiet, Princess," Merlin said, walking her to the foot of the stair that led to the royal wing, lingering behind the other men.

Princess. Because now they were back in the palace. She thought he wasn't even aware of how his surroundings seemed to influence his behavior. But confidence in familiarity was not something she could command out of him – only coax subtly, maybe.

"We have had a great deal of exercise, yesterday and today," she observed, and a wrinkle formed between drawn brows.

"I've worn you out," he said. "I'm sorry – it was too much, too quickly – but you know you don't have to –"

"It was fine," she interrupted, joining her right hand to her left at his elbow to squeeze his arm earnestly. "A lot of walking – but I thoroughly enjoyed myself."

"Good," he said, with obvious relief. "I guess I am used to being active all day, myself… What do you wish of me, tomorrow?"

It was late, which was why she couldn't immediately think of a good answer. She'd entertained female guests, before – painting and music and embroidery and gardens – but their male guests had always spent more time with her father and brothers. She'd already shown Merlin most of their capital, palace and town, so… perhaps a journey to the Labyrinth? Or a visit to the sword-smiths down the coast, where the most famous metalworkers used magic to aid in creating unique blades?

She said, "I'm going to have breakfast with my sisters, but after that…?"

He smiled and quipped, "You mean I get to have a late morning?"

"As late as you like." She was aware that her father had paused at the door of his chamber – to see that she entered hers, and alone, she supposed, though surely he couldn't seriously doubt her or her suitor. "Goodnight, Merlin."

He gave her a little bow, pressing her hand once, and turned back down the hall that led to the guest quarters.

She watched him til he passed from her sight - then wondered why she'd done so.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Mama, but I don't like strawb'ry jam," Crissa's daughter complained loudly, from the larger lower table set separately from that shared by Mithian and her two sisters.

Four going on fourteen, they agreed whenever the little girl wasn't present.

"Try the apricot, then," Crissa advised – which quieted her daughter with new focus, and rescued the nurse currently supervising the whole table. Turning back to the two of them, she added, "I'm only saying, his manners are _nice_ , but not _natural_. There's a difference. He's paying attention, and Ybor and Antor don't have to."

"Don't bother to, you mean," Mithian said. "I think it's because he's a guest, more than because he was raised a commoner. He was perfectly polite in Camelot, even before he knew who I was."

 _Except for the moment he bowled me over and protected my body with his…_

Amylia made a sound of agreement. "It's not as though he's stiff, or terrified of making a mistake – on the contrary, he seems to have relaxed somewhat. What are you going to do with him today?"

Crissa snorted, and Amylia elbowed her, and Mithian felt heat rise at the half-understood innuendo.

"I don't know yet."

"Well, you could always –"

A knock sounded on the main door of the chamber, and Amylia's two oldest children – Gunnor and his six-year-old sister – looked up expectantly. The men of their family knew their plans this morning, and in any case would walk right in. The door opened to show the right half of Refan, the steward's assistant, evidently arguing with someone in the corridor.

"No, don't bother them, I'm early –"

"It will not do to have a guest loiter in the hallways unattended," Refan responded, and turned to look at their table – probably at Amylia. "Merlin of Camelot, Your Highnesses."

"Please show him in," Amylia said immediately.

Refan looked back to the shadowed hall, and Merlin sidled around the open door, keeping his hands behind him and his back to the wall as the steward's assistant shut it. He wore a white shirt under a red brocade tunic - embroidered over the heart with a gold symbol that Mithian assumed was the Pendragon crest – whose bottom edge fell a third of the way down his thigh.

"I'm terribly sorry for interrupting," he said, not really entering the room. "I was just going to wait, but Refan is very proud of doing his job properly…"

"Not at all," Amylia said. "Have you eaten? You can join us with an extra chair, if you don't mind drawing it yourself…" She glanced around the room to locate the nearest one.

"No, I've eaten already," Merlin said, meeting Mithian's eyes to smile. "Thank you, though."

"I thought you were going to sleep late this morning?" she said, dipping the tiny silver spoon into the salt cellar to flavor the boiled egg she'd just cracked and halved.

And then he ventured forward a few steps. "I thought I did. Rising early is kind of a habit."

"A servant's habit?" Gunnor called from the other table, up on his knees to reach for more honey, as the nurse and his siblings were distracted by the visitor. He'd picked up on his father and uncle's teasing of their guest, it seemed.

Mithian held her breath, but Merlin grinned over at the boy. "An _outlaw's_ habit."

"Oh…"

A drawn-out sound of envy; they'd heard how Merlin had commonly spent his time between his incomplete execution and Arthur's coronation favor of freedom. For her part, Mithian was always relieved that Merlin betrayed no self-consciousness in speaking of his past, though she suspected he tailored his tales somewhat for his audience.

Crissa's daughter chose that precise moment to explode.

"No, I hate ap'icot! Get it away!" she screamed, flinging the jar away from the table.

Mithian watched the vessel with its sticky contents arc for the expensive woven rug; Crissa gasped.

And it stuck motionless in mid-air – not even dripping. Right between Mithian and Merlin, as it happened; she stared transfixed at his outstretched hand, reaching as if he could physically catch it, and at the golden gleam of magic just fading back to blue in his eyes.

"Nice catch," Gunnor said approvingly.

Crissa sighed, slumping back in her chair – but her relief was premature. The little curly-haired princess – generally upset at the new baby's addition to their family, according to Amylia who'd know – shrieked with temper. And began throwing everything within reach, off the table as fast as she could.

Merlin caught them all – none falling, none even hitting each other in the air.

The nurse at the table struggled to reach the tantrum-thrower, hampered by the baby in her arms. Amylia's youngest, only two, joined in tossing objects; Gunnor shouted, "Naughty, naughty!" gleefully, and his gentler six-year-old sister began to cry.

Merlin gestured with his other hand, immediately lifting every other object on the children's tabletop three feet in the air, out of reach.

"Good _heavens_ ," Crissa said, heartfelt like she'd say something stronger if it wasn't for the children's presence.

"Nothing spilled," Amylia said, rising from her seat – but Mithian couldn't tell if she was giving or asking for reassurance.

"Where do you want it all?" Merlin asked, gold swirling and glinting from his eyes.

"Oh – just put it…" Amylia glanced around, distracted by Crissa leaving the table and going to meet the nurse with the baby.

"I'll hold him, if you can take her away to the nursery –"

"No I won't go!"

Mithian moved to take the two-year-old from the pregnant Amylia, both of them watching their niece throw herself down from the chair – throwing the chair down, too – and begin to kick and pound the floor with her fists, screaming all the while. Returning to her chair to settle the littlest girl of the family in her lap and try to scoop egg from its shell one-handed, Mithian wondered if she ought to warn Merlin, yes this had become typical. A phase, they were all hoping.

Gunnor had climbed onto the table to continue eating his breakfast from the floating plate standing up, and Amylia was caught between trying to drag him down, and console her second-born daughter. Merlin gave Mithian a worried from, then gestured to return all the thrown bits and pieces, food and dish, to the children's table. Crissa knelt and called her daughter's name, trying to get her attention, but the little girl shook her light-brown curls vigorously to deny her mother.

"Can I try to distract her?" Merlin called, eyeing the children at the disorganized table – Gunnor still standing, eating a crumbly biscuit with his fingers – before looking back to distraught mother and daughter.

"Please!" Crissa responded, sitting back on her knees to clutch two handfuls of her own braided red-brown hair.

Mithian leaned forward attentively, forgetting her breakfast.

Merlin glanced about, then his eyes gleamed again, and the napkin that had dropped from Mithian's lap when she stood, hopped and brushed its way across the floor. Right to Crissa's daughter, where it dragged over her hands – tightened into fists and pulled back – and over her rumpled curls. Merlin moved forward, folding his legs to sit on the rug as the napkin continued to tease.

The screaming sobs lessened, quieted; Mithian thought she was not the only one holding her breath as the distraught little lady lifted her head.

The older two children – Gunnor and his sister – held still at the table, watching. The two-year-old in Mithian's lap bounced like she wanted to be let down to pursue the enchanted napkin. Crissa's daughter gave it undiverted attention.

Merlin spoke, and Mithian recognized the cadence of a spell, though not the words. The napkin twirled itself, the middle bunched into a ball and the edges trailing – like the head and gown of a dancer – _dancing_.

"Oh!" Amylia said in surprise, as the other napkins from the table spun up into the air, then down onto the floor to join in.

Mithian lifted her elbow involuntarily at a gentle tugging, and the other napkins from the ladies' table did the same.

"Oh," Merlin echoed, sounding surprised himself. "Well, all right then."

"Did you just make that spell up?" Crissa demanded incredulously, as her daughter scrambled up off the floor, tear-stained and enthralled, and curled into her mother's silken lap.

"It's not always safe to do," Merlin said, looking endearingly pleased with himself. "But dancing napkins shouldn't cause much harm."

Mithian felt willingly enchanted, herself.

Crissa's daughter clapped her hands and leaned forward – then frowned up at Merlin. "They all wadies," she said, dissatisfied. "They need gen'lemen."

"Do they?" Merlin said to her – tossing a funny smile at Mithian.

"Here!" Gunnor called, stepping down from the table to the seat of his chair, and lifting the honey jar into the air in suggestion.

"That'll make a very sweet gentleman," Crissa laughed.

The sorcerer reached – with his hand and with magic, and the honey jar bobbed down to the open floor dusted by the skirts of the dancing napkins. He spoke again, and the jar dipped and clattered on its base, putting Mithian in mind of a jolly old bachelor enjoying himself in the midst of a flock of delicate young ladies.

"Merlin, look out," Amylia cautioned, as several more dishes rose from the table – tea-cups, egg-cups, spoons. Mithian gripped the salt-cellar, and it settled back quietly enough – though the spoon rattled twice like it still wanted to join the dance.

The two-year-old was bouncing Mithian too; Amylia's daughter clapping her hands and Gunnor trying an impromptu jig on the seat of his chair. Merlin leaned closer to the four-year-old in Crissa's lap.

"Do you know why they're dancing?" he said softly, and answered his own question. "Because they're cheerful."

"They're happy to have jam, no matter what kind it is," Crissa added meaningfully. "They couldn't dance if they were busy screaming and kicking the floor, could they?"

The little girl's eyes widened as she pondered the dancing tableware. Mithian hoped this might be a lasting lesson – but her niece was only four, after all. She released the youngest from her lap; the two-year-old bounced unsteadily across the floor to join the dance with happy ungraceful glee, and Mithian didn't even hear the door open.

"What on earth is going on here!" Ybor's voice rose above the noise. He wore chainmail under the forest-green tunic embroidered with Nemeth's black rampant bull; his gloved hands were on his hips, and a ferocious scowl on his face.

His daughter jumped up from her mother's lap, to clasp her arms about his legs. "They dancing, Daddy! They like ap'icot jam!"

He gently disentangled her; the other three children didn't bother taking notice of his arrival til he stepped forward, glaring at Merlin, and declaring thunderously, "I will not allow this to continue!"

"Ybor, the baby," Crissa admonished from the floor.

Facing Ybor, Merlin's expression was hidden from Mithian, but he put both hands flat on the floor to either side of himself, as if ready to scramble to his feet. The little dance had halted, the napkins wilting down to the stone of the floor.

"I will not have my privilege usurped by an interloper!" Ybor continued wrathfully. Mithian slid to the edge of her seat uncertainly, before her brother concluded with the petulance of young Gunnor, " _I_ am the favorite uncle!"

Mithian sighed. Gunnor cackled, stomping his feet on the chair, and Crissa rolled her eyes at her husband as he bent to lift her to her feet. Merlin did scramble up then, but he was grinning.

"The first chance I get," Ybor added, "I'm going to tell your king that I caught you playing tea party with magic, with the girls and the children!"

"Oh, _no_ ," Merlin said, with such obvious dismay that Mithian giggled.

"Oh, yes," Ybor said. "There's only one solution – if you redeem yourself on the training field. I can be impressed into holding my tongue."

"Or blackmailed," his wife added composedly, checking her baby in the arms of the nurse – who looked slightly overwhelmed, in Mithian's opinion.

"I don't have a choice, do I," Merlin sighed, looking from Ybor to Mithian.

"Nope," the prince said cheerfully.

Even though Mithian had been unsure how exactly to spend the day with her suitor, she found she felt a touch of melancholy to be deprived of his company – as if she missed him already, and looked forward to being with him again before he was even gone. She was at his side before she knew it, reaching to slide her hand into his for a quick squeeze – that he seemed unprepared for.

"I'll come to rescue you in an hour or so, if you need me to," she whispered, lifting on her toes to be closer to his ear. He ducked his head slightly to hear her better. "I'll find some excuse why I need you to attend on me, and not them."

"If you like," Merlin whispered back agreeably.

"No telling all my secrets!" Ybor warned her. "Then I can't go easy on him."

"Good luck, Merlin!" Amylia called from behind the table, as Ybor threw his arm around the younger man's shoulders to draw him to the door.

"And thank you!" Crissa added.

"I want to go too!" Gunnor declared, but his mother had a hold of his collar, as Merlin managed one last smile at Mithian before the men disappeared.

"You have lessons," Amylia reminded her son, who was immediately – and unsurprisingly – vociferous in protesting.

"Speaking of sweet gentlemen," Crissa murmured, bending to retrieve the honeypot, and lifting her eyebrows at Mithian.

Who flushed, but didn't try to hide a proud smile.

It took some time to get the children on their way; the nurse took the baby and Mithian and Crissa picked up the floor while Amylia kept her two-year-old from the scatter of enchanted table objects before two kitchen servants arrived to clear it all away.

"The window in my sitting room," Crissa said with suspicious neutrality, "overlooks the training field. If you ladies have the time for leisure, that is?"

"I'm sure my plans can wait," Amylia said, smiling, "and I think Mithian is required to watch, don't you?"

Crissa hummed, giving Mithian an arch look.

"Well, I can't deny I'm curious," Mithian said, picking up the two-year-old and settling her on her hip. "And you two never need an excuse to watch my brothers practice the sword. Will there be wagering this time?"

Crissa snickered, and led the way.

 **A/N: Admission: I had the scene from "Sword in the Stone" in mind when I wrote the tea-party napkin-dance… And btw, there's quite a bit more romance before anything heads near the fan, in case you're like me and start getting jumpy when Merlin's life gets too idyllic… You will recognize the moment everything starts going downhill, I promise, no need to squint for it.**


	15. Mithian (3)

**Chapter 15: Mithian (3)**

As the palace of Nemeth topped the hill it and part of the town were built upon, and the royal residences were on the upper floors, Mithian and her two sisters-in-law in Crissa's sitting-room were quite high above the training field. Not so much that the men below were unrecognizable, only enough to be removed from the harshest of the noises.

"Open or shut?" Crissa said, kneeling up on the generous window-seat.

"It's not too cold to open them?" Amylia said, arranging her blooming body next to her, more clumsily. She peered through one of the tiny diamond-shaped panes, then dodged a bit to see if another gave a better view.

"If it gets too cold, I'll have a fire laid later," Crissa decided, reaching for the latch and swinging one of the windows open.

"Oh, they've got Merlin in armor," Amylia said. "Mithian, come and – _oh_."

"Dear, he's not very good, is he," Crissa murmured, frowning at Amylia.

Mithian put Amylia's youngest down to amuse herself – the room was safe at a two-year-old level - and came to lean on the casement behind Amylia, peering down into the training yard, a level square between the dairy and the stable.

Ybor was leaning on one of the tables beside the green, left for bearing weaponry or armor or occasionally discarded articles of clothing – this morning, a patch of red that Mithian suspected was Merlin's tunic. He looked to be hollering – advice or abuse, it was impossible to tell and either was equally likely – at the pair circling each other, swords and shields raised.

Black-haired Merlin stumbled and let his sword-point dip; Antor with his lighter hair braided down his neck, wearing a green tunic like Ybor's, attacked with a descending over-head swing. Merlin gave ground generously, heavy-footed and relying on his shield, making only one rather wild attempt to use his own blade. Ybor threw his arms up, turning away – but looking back almost immediately to see Antor trip up his opponent somehow, knocking the shield aside and stepping on it to place his blade at Merlin's throat in the claim of victory.

"Hm," Crissa made a disparaging sound.

"Not everyone needs to be good with a sword," Amylia said encouragingly, up to Mithian. "Maybe he's just… not a warrior."

"He's not a _swordsman_ ," Mithian corrected. Merlin's grin was visible at the distance, and he took the hand Antor offered to lift him up without hesitation.

"It's not surprising, really," Crissa said. "He can't have had any kind of regular instruction, much less from the caliber of tutors that princes have."

"He didn't use his magic, though…" Amylia whispered.

And that, was powerful enough that he'd needed only a couple of spells – that he'd crafted himself, on the spot – for that morning's performance at breakfast. And not only strong, but skilled, to accomplish multiple and delicate focuses at once…

On the field, Ybor had come out from behind the table, reclaiming his equipment from Merlin, and facing off with his brother. At the upstairs sitting-room window, their wives made attentive and pleased noises.

Mithian had seen this pairing repeated weekly if not daily, ever since she could remember. Instead, she watched Merlin wriggle out of his borrowed chainmail, laying it carefully on the table with neat, professional movements. Then, leaving his tunic despite the icy edge of the air, he strode around the square of the field – _where's he going? is he mad, or offended, after all?_ – to the water barrel the knights emptied hourly in the height of summer. Locating a pair of horn cups in general use, he dipped water, then returned to the table to hitch one leg over the corner and wait, watching.

She ignored the short, excited comments her two sisters-in-law made – ignored also her brothers' match. It would be Ybor, almost always these days. Since he'd filled out just enough broader and taller than their older brother to notice, and since Antor had taken some of the indoor duties from their father. She was curious to note that Merlin's attention did not stray from the princes' match, nor did he fidget like he was bored.

When the two brothers fell back, Antor retreated as far as the table, to accept one of the cups Merlin offered. It looked like he also offered a few words – nothing that took Antor's gaze off his opponent, however – and the prince regent nodded twice, before passing the cup back to Merlin and advancing to engage Ybor again.

And then, somehow managed to catch him off-guard, spinning and ducking as Ybor over-extended. Crissa gasped at the _thwack!_ Antor's blade made on Ybor's arm – and his sword slipped to the grass. Antor lifted his blade instantly, pushing his brother back from his fallen weapon so it could not be retrieved.

"Oh, _my_ ," Amylia said.

Merlin appeared to cheer them both; Antor switched his blade to his left hand and offered the other. Ybor took it – stiff in body, but not in manner. Antor tucked his sword under his arm to use both hands in investigating the damage he'd done to his brother's shoulder, and Merlin put down the cups of water and hopped off the table to join them.

"Should we go down?" Crissa asked.

"I think I will," Mithian declared. "At the very least, I can find out if Merlin is a better archer than he is a swordsman."

"If Ybor is really hurt, have him come in and see Alice!" Crissa called after her, and she waved to show she'd heard.

It had been many a long year since Mithian had traveled the halls and stairs of her palace at anything faster than a seemly walk – but that morning she hurried her pace, hoping the men would not abandon the field before she reached them. Breathless, she exited the palace and nearly skipped over the grass.

They'd gotten Ybor's chainmail off him, and Merlin was just easing his gambeson down his shoulders also, when she arrived at Antor's side. The prince regent slouched on the table and sipped at the water in his cup, and glanced down at her with a reassuring smile.

"Maybe we should have told Merlin to take it easy on you, Ybor," she quipped.

Ybor gave her a sour grimace, but Merlin grinned over his shoulder. "His Majesty's hit, not mine," he said, his fingers deftly exploring Ybor's shoulder and back, through the thin white shirt he still wore. "Here?"

Ybor straightened and inhaled suddenly. "No, I just caught a chill," he said sarcastically.

"Have your knights got ointments for bruises and strained muscles?" Merlin asked, snaking one arm over Ybor's opposite shoulder and across his chest. "Ours use such tinctures so routinely that Gaius keeps it stocked in the armory and barracks… It's one of the things we let Tobe do, now, mix it up – under supervision, of course." He gripped Ybor and bent his strength into whatever he was doing behind him, making a frown of concentration – but his eyes, though she watched them, never flared with magic use.

"I'm sure our healer has something similar," Antor answered. Ybor made a face, but Mithian wasn't sure if it was for distaste of those tinctures, or the discomfort of whatever Merlin was doing.

"Who's Tobe?" Mithian asked.

"Son of Arthur's manservant – I'm sure you saw him about when you were in Camelot. Errand boy, really, but he's smart and – interested, so we – teach him things. Useful things." Merlin straightened and withdrew around to Ybor's other side, a satisfied look on his face. "How's that."

Ybor worked his arm. "A lot better actually – I thought I wasn't going to be able to move it for a while there."

"Exaggerator," Antor said dryly.

"I won't even have to see our healer, now," Ybor declared, grinning at Merlin.

"You probably should, anyway," Mithian cautioned. "Or Crissa might be upset."

Ybor humphed. "See you all at dinner, then," he said, beginning to stalk back toward the palace.

Merlin called after him, "Wait, you've forgotten your –"

"Don't mind it," Antor said negligently. "A servant will get it." Over Merlin's subdued, _Right… yes_ , the prince regent added, "Thanks for the advice – and the match."

"I can't do it very well," Merlin said cheerfully, shrugging, "but I've watched it done by several of the best, often enough."

"You did well enough," Antor disagreed. "Maybe well enough to be admitted to the knights' trials, here…" Merlin scoffed and Antor grinned as he excused himself, heading away to his own duties with a salute of his sword before sheathing it; Merlin turned to begin gathering the chainmail from the table.

"Leave it," Mithian suggested. "Someone really will take care of that for us. You're a guest," she reminded him, when he seemed inclined to protest.

He gave in with a sigh, relinquishing the chainmail to reclaim his tunic. "I suppose you saw my match, then?"

"Yes, I did," she added, when his head was still inside the garment. "Amylia and I were wondering why you didn't use magic?"

He grunted, emerging and tugging the tunic into place, getting it settled over his shirt and the belt buckled properly – but neglecting the slight disarray of his hair. Mithian thought of Crissa running her fingers through Ybor's longish locks – wondered how Merlin's would feel and if he would like that, and shivered.

"Perhaps we can talk while we walk back to the palace?" Merlin suggested. "It's a good question – and a good explanation, I promise you – but the wind is chilly, and neither of us has our cloaks."

"Oh – I was going to take you around to the archery butts," Mithian said. "Unless – you're cold?"

"Not really – hardy peasant upbringing," Merlin said. "But I'm as bad with a bow as I am with a sword, I'll just tell you now – I was thinking of your comfort?"

"I do like to practice once in a while – even in winter if the sun is out," Mithian said. "We hunt fairly regularly, and it's the one thing I can beat my brothers at, the crossbow."

"Oh?" Merlin said, with interest. "We can go round there, if you like. If you're sure you're not cold."

"No…" She was slightly embarrassed, now. "There's no need for me to show off my one and only skill –" Merlin scoffed gallantly to disagree with _one and only_ , and she smiled. "We can go back inside, if you'd rather."

"There was something I wanted to see you about – in private," Merlin said, glancing around them. She took his elbow, and the first step, and as they walked back toward the palace, he commented, "You enjoy hunting, then?"

"I do…" She looked at him more closely, and suspected the pleasant neutrality of his expression. "You're not a fan of hunting?"

His mouth quirked. "What sport is it when one side has dogs and spears and crossbows and the other side has nothing?"

She thought for a moment of the larger meets she'd participated in. And what the servants had been doing while she and her siblings had been galloping about in the excitement of the chase. Running, all day. Carrying, cleaning… She knew that their hunts usually made use of volunteers, and their beaters seemed to enjoy the exercise and the fine weather as much as they did, but… this wasn't Camelot.

"And yet," she ventured, "You took two helpings of the venison sausage…"

He grinned more fully. "Sometimes, Arthur used to drag me out to the forest with him, to hunt. Just the two of us, creeping along – well, til recently he'd have told you I don't have a stealthy bone in my body – and the game we returned with was truly earned. Not just overwhelmed or exhausted…"

"Do you enjoy riding?" she asked deliberately.

"Never really did it for the _fun_ ," he said with good humor.

"We often let our quarry escape," she told him gently, "if we don't actually need the meat…"

"Then why not just go riding?" he countered, just as mildly.

She smiled because he was smiling. Of course it wasn't logical to expect that any two people would agree on everything, but she was glad that their differing backgrounds and opinions were counterweighed rather than adversarial. He appreciated the reasons for her enjoyment; she respected his aversion in the details.

When they reached the door, he held it open for her.

"I'd like to hear your good explanation for my good question," Mithian prompted, keeping her eyes open for a good place where they could be alone without trespassing on propriety. "Why you didn't use magic in your match with Antor."

She felt the muscles of his arm tense through his sleeve, though he spoke calmly. "Arthur asked the same thing. He wanted his knights to practice fighting magic, so that if they had to in the future…"

"That seems sensible enough," she observed, even reading that he didn't agree. "Why don't you?"

"It's a bit like…" He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, but kept her hand firmly at his elbow. "Pairing a bowman and a swordsman, for practice. It isn't done."

"Ah," she said. Yes, usually like weapons fought like – though in tournaments, which were more serious, the combatants themselves could choose and agree otherwise.

"In a battle," Merlin said slowly, "every man must fight with what he has, weapons and skills. But in battle, it's about life and death, not – _practice_. I could have used my magic very easily against Antor – I've done it a couple of times against Arthur, only don't tell him that – tricks and surprises and deceptions, but why would I? Neither of us is happy with my victory, then. I haven't proven anything, he hasn't learned anything. It might be beneficial for the knights to watch two sorcerers duel, or a sorcerer who plans to aid the knights in fighting to observe their training, but…"

"I see." Even though she hadn't, ever seen battle and the desperation of kill or be killed. Men had been hurt in tournaments here, but they'd never had fatalities. Or magic-users who were interested enough in battle-magic to risk it against each other for display, even if such was encouraged in Nemeth. "Do you have someone in Camelot that you practice with, then?"

He smiled at her. "There's only Ally, right now, though I am teaching her how to defend herself. And I… seem to do better on the spur of the moment."

She thought about the moment when the boulder in the corridor vanished, and the rest of the castle's stone rumbled ominously. Spur of the moment. She said, "A genuine need for defense?"

He nodded.

Something to keep in mind, anyway, especially with Crissa's preference for a more obvious warrior. Given the hints of things unsaid in his stories and answers, Mithian could not but believe Merlin had been in battle, himself – maybe not army against army on a great open field, but still fighting enemies personally and close, that would take his life or Arthur's without hesitation.

She didn't know whether to wish someday to see her suitor in genuine action – or to hope that there was never the need.

It was hard to find a place that was truly private; even with all the members of her family occupied elsewhere, there were servants and guards in almost every corridor. The only places she knew where they'd be truly alone were their respective chambers – both of which were inappropriate for privacy at this point in their relationship. But Merlin didn't seem impatient, and then Mithian remembered one painting of the Labyrinth of Gedref in an alcove in the upper north gallery had curtains, and a little seat.

"Oh, _wow_ ," Merlin said, when they stepped into the alcove.

The murmur of the men gathered in the audience chamber below to transact the business of the kingdom was unobtrusive, not unlike the background sounds of nature, were they outside in nice weather.

"Is this an accurate rendering?" he continued, leaning close to the painting to trace the lines of light and dark green.

The windows in the domed ceiling above separated the sunlight into diffuse rays; Mithian let one of the curtains fall and the alcove was still bright with almost-midday light. She seated herself on one-half of the small bench, reflecting that if Merlin was built like Ybor, they never could sit there together.

"I believe so," Mithian said. "At least, accurate to the Labyrinth at the time; I've heard it said that it changes."

"I'd believe it," Merlin said, following his fingers to the eastern edge of the painted maze, where the greenery gave way to the glittering pale sand and white-topped waves of the coast.

"You've been there?" Mithian asked – almost disappointed, if she was going to lose that idea for an outing. It was getting too cold anymore to make the journey all the way to the Labyrinth unless it was to show it to him for the first time.

"Once. It was more a quest, though, than a sight-seeing trip."

"With Arthur?" she guessed. He turned to her and smiled, and she reasoned, "Being in that place with the son of Uther Pendragon… yes, that would be quite dangerous. But you were allowed out again, which says a lot."

"Says a lot about Arthur," Merlin corrected softly.

For a moment he looked at her, and she didn't feel the need to fill the silence with words. Then he fumbled with the hem of his tunic to find his trousers' pocket, and brought his fist out clenched around something, before sitting down next to her. The bench was so short that their clothes brushed, arm and hip and leg, but it was nice – calming rather than embarrassing, even when their elbows bumped. At least he wasn't apologizing and calling her Your Highness.

"I have something for you," he said, his eyes on his closed hand. "I… brought something, for you. But I wasn't sure if I should give it to you right away, before we got to know each other. I wasn't – exactly – sure, how you'd react. But now… this is for you." He opened his hand to show a slender strip, twisted and kinked on his palm, scarlet-red with a hint of gold, and dark opaque stones.

She picked it up to examine more closely – a bracelet of red silk threat, knotted and tied in a delicate web that wasn't solid, but would show gaps and spaces in a lacy pattern, with a single gold thread winding throughout. Three small dark pebbles, roughly round in shape, were bound into the bracelet with the thread, and several strands were braided beyond the bracelet's ends, to tie the piece onto one's wrist, knotted themselves so they wouldn't unravel.

Merlin continued, sounding nervous. "Arthur said jewelry, and I know he meant silver or gold, with gems fit for a princess, and I know I could pick anything from the merchants' stalls or commission something from the 'smiths, and tell them Arthur would cover the cost. And he would, and think nothing of it – he feels like he owes me, and offered me far more in salary than I wanted, when I came back to Camelot this spring. But what I do for him, you can't put a price on that, and you shouldn't, it isn't a _job_ to me, it's my destiny and my pleasure and my purpose, and of course I have to make a living also, but…"

He sighed, and she had no words.

"I'll never be a rich man, my lady. I don't want to be a rich man. And I didn't want to give you anything I felt I hadn't earned. I don't want to give you things that Arthur's paid for."

"I understand," she said. Her throat felt just a bit tight, her breathing just a bit strained in her chest. Because she did – and she also understood the risk he'd taken, giving her something like this instead of a more expensive and meaningless bangle.

She also determined to leave the bulk of her own jewelry in Nemeth, if and when they journeyed to Camelot together; she didn't often wear more than the gold necklace that was important to her as her mother's, and which Merlin had recovered for her among the rubble of the collapsed ruins. Finery was unimportant, when compared to… _this_.

"I thought you would. I hoped you would. There was a vendor in Camelot's marketplace that showed me how to do all the twisting and tying – part of it you use a needle for – so I bought the thread, but the stones I found in the –"

"You _made_ this?" Mithian said, incredulous, lifting the bracelet and stretching it out delicately for a closer scrutiny.

"Don't look too closely," Merlin said lightly. "You'll see all the mistakes."

The tight sensation was pinched toward a lump in her throat; she suspected he meant more than just his work on the bracelet, suddenly. And she couldn't speak.

"The stones," he continued, "I found in the stream that supplies the ruined castle with its water."

"Oh, _Merlin_ ," she managed faintly.

Some girls would prefer gemstones, no matter how he explained his reasoning, and be absolutely horrified to receive stream-smoothed pebbles, but what he was giving her was a link to his past. To – she could imagine – a time that had been dangerous and uncertain for him, maybe even occasionally despairing. A time when hopes and dreams had been just as important as another day's provisions, and survival – the true companionship of a select few and the pain of separation from home and family – the satisfaction of forging a new home and family…

"They're enchanted," Merlin added shyly. "The stones, I mean. For your protection. I – Arthur says I worry too much, but things _happen_ in Camelot, and if I bring you there, I want to try to keep you safe."

She blinked, and a tear spilled. "You could not have given me anything more precious," she told him. And impulsively twisted on the bench, pushing her knee into his, lifting her free hand to hold his face so she could kiss his cheek.

He smelled, incongruously, like grass and snow – crisp and tingling and alive. And held his breath, and didn't move. She hoped that was all for good, right reasons as she pulled back, her heart thumping. He cleared his throat, as she draped the bracelet over her wrist and held it for him to tie.

His fingers were gentle and sure – physician's fingers, and she wondered whether his dexterity and the use of the needle had come from servant's experience in mending a master's clothing, or from stitching wounds.

"I don't have anything to give you in return," Mithian said. Trusting that Merlin would know she was not fishing for an insincere compliment – _the pleasure of your company is worth all the stars and diamonds in the kingdom_ and so on – or a pass. _You don't need to._

"Well," he said, tightening and adjusting the bracelet's ties – practical as well as romantic. "There's another reason I gave you this – it's because I intended to ask a gift from you in return."

She sat back, running her fingers over the silky bumps of the bracelet, feeling the embedded stones, and couldn't anticipate what his favor might be, at all. "What is that?"

"I want to ask you to allow me to be useful, here?" His eyebrows and the corners of his mouth rose hopefully together. "I've thoroughly enjoyed our time together, and I hope I don't offend you if I assume you don't spend all day every day simply strolling about."

A chuckle tumbled out of her, and his smile widened into a grin.

"If I'm to stay through the season, I beg you will give me something to do to help. You, or your family – your brothers and father – the kingdom, anything I can do. At least a few hours? Maybe that makes me a bad guest, but I'd like to demonstrate my appreciation for your hospitality – and not keep you from any responsibilities or duties, either."

"Well," Mithian said, happy and relieved that his feelings about the visit complemented hers – _how am I supposed to keep him entertained?_ – "I usually teach some classes to the village children. Nothing really structured, because their parents need them so often, and nothing really intense – it's been a while because harvest-time is always so busy, and when winter takes hold quite a few don't care enough to brave the cold in coming. But there's that and… some other things I could show you. After the noon meal? Are you hungry?"

"I think it's in the Knights' Code," Merlin said, with a glint in his eye, "that any type of fighting is supposed to work up an appetite."

Mithian laughed. "In that case," she rose and he followed, only a moment later, "let's get to the dining room before my brothers, if we still can."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the early afternoon, Mithian took Merlin to another of her favorite rooms in the palace – the library.

Being on the west side of the palace, the slowly-setting sun glowed off the rock of the walls, and since the royal living quarters were above them, the ceilings were only a dozen feet from the floor. Sturdy, ancient shelves ringed an open area with carpets and desks and the effect of the whole was quite cozy.

"I have to say," Merlin followed her more slowly, as he looked around, "if Camelot's library was like this, I'd probably spent more time there, instead of sneaking books out one at a time to read somewhere else."

Mithian made a sound of agreement. Geoffrey was very cordial, though she hadn't really spoken to him beyond introductions, but the library at Camelot had much in common with the vaults and crypts.

"Hi, Merlin," Gunnor said from the desk by the window, where his tutor was supervising a lesson. Sometimes his next-oldest sister came too, but the younger children's lessons were very basic and conducted in the nursery.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," Merlin said, grinning at the boy. "I hope we're not disturbing you – I've asked the princess to put me to work if she can."

"Good," Gunnor returned. "Courting's boring."

Mithian snickered, and warmed at the glance of amusement Merlin sent her. She perched on the high stool behind the desk she usually claimed, opening its slanted lid to retrieve her manuscript and parchment, quills and ink.

"What's this?" Merlin said. He showed such genuine interest in everything; it was something she was beginning to love about him.

"Father gives me an allowance for parchment and ink," she said. "I make copies of our books and give them away where they would be of the most use. Or I copy something in disrepair – or maybe something valuable that the merchants will buy and I can give Amylia the coin for her women-and-children fund."

Merlin bent over her desk, reading the last she'd written, a list of the competitors and accounts of the matches of their last tournament, held that summer in honor of Ybor's newborn son.

"Sometimes I translate," she added, a little shyly. "And I have been known to – reword accounts such as these, and draw pictures to match. For the children."

He lifted his head to smile at her, and she let her gaze flit over his features again, _learning_ him. The shape of his nose, the curve of his cheek- and brow-bones, the line of jaw and bend of mouth – the smooth skin and the faintest hint of a dark beard that would show if he didn't shave.

"You have a neat, steady hand," he told her.

She stored that away in her memory with the other few, strange, honest compliments he'd given her. She liked that about him, too, that he didn't waste credulity on calculated or flowery praise.

"I often do this for several hours a day," she told him. "One, at least, I can usually manage. Each of these desks has ink and quill, and I keep my store of parchment here…"

She reached back into the desk, balancing all her materials on top of it, and gave him two sheets. Four pages, front and back.

"I sometimes do more than one project at a time, for the sake of variety, so if you prefer a treatise on common childhood complaints that our healer has asked for…" She trailed off, studying him and sensing his hesitation. "What's the matter. You don't want to? Oh -" A horrifying thought struck her – "I'm sorry, I completely assumed you could–"

"Read and write?" he finished for her. Still meeting her eyes and smiling, and she decided she also loved his indefatigable good moods. "I do. Read better than I write, Gaius and Arthur both say so. It turns out I'm too impatient to be neat, even, and so _my_ hand is atrocious."

"You're serious," she said in dismay.

"I've been meaning to copy Gaius' spell-book," Merlin said. "But if I do, it would be more like this…"

He bent over her work again, studying to match where she had left off last week, then spread his hand above the page. " _Icuis bisan hraed thaes gediht_."

That was one she understood. And therefore, wasn't surprised to see letters and words and paragraphs, flourishes and illuminations spill over her page. That would have taken her until dinnertime, and probably her hand would ache since she'd neglected her hobby for several days, now.

Merlin grinned up at her, then turned her page over to its blank back and repeated the spell for the next page of the book. Hours of painstaking work by hand accomplished beautifully and flawlessly in a matter of heartbeats.

"Hey, Merlin," Gunnor called, "I'm supposed to be copying part of our code of law over here…"

"No," his tutor and Merlin said at the same time.

But when he reached for one of the fresh sheets of parchment she'd laid out for his use, simultaneously turning the page of the book she was copying, she snatched his hand away in both of hers, as though she could block his magic. As though his magic was a physical thing that emerged somehow from his palm, and she could squeeze it back inside.

"Oh, no," she told him, laughing and pleading at once. "My father will only pay for so much at a time, and it must last – it is a difficult and lengthy process to make the parchment, so… you mustn't."

Merlin wasn't offended. "I suppose I could read, while you write," he proposed. "That treatise on childhood complaints – or medical texts, if you have any that Gaius doesn't."

"I highly doubt that," Mithian said, disheartened that her good idea had come to nothing. At least she could hope to work in the library at Camelot, if and when they went; she was sure she could make improvements there.

Which thought prompted her to consider, how Merlin was used to passing his time, when he was at home. Of course they couldn't have him polishing floors and windows here – and servanthood was in his past there, as well. Neither King Rodor nor Antor needed an advisor on magic, but… she remembered his room in the abandoned castle, before it had truly become ruined.

"Oh, I haven't introduced you to our healer, yet," she realized. "Or shown you the infirmary. Crissa occasionally helps in there – or she did, before the baby…"

"If you think he wouldn't mind my help," Merlin said hopefully. "Some physicians can be very particular about their craft – Gaius was very grouchy with Tobe, when he started. And with me, actually."

"She," Mithian said.

"Your healer is a lady?" Merlin sounded intrigued, straightening off the desk so Mithian could pack her things away again. If Alice and Merlin hit it off, she could come back to it later, maybe.

"An old lady," Gunnor corrected, skipping up. "I'm done with lessons now, Auntie, can I come with you? Only Alice chases me out if I go to the infirmary by myself."

"With good reason," Mithian reminded him, closing the lid of the desk and standing.

Merlin's head was tipped, his expression curious. "Alice?" he said.

"Yes." This time Mithian did not have to wait for him to follow – his chest was inches from her shoulder blade as they left the library and started down the corridor, Gunnor tagging along behind them. "She's been here about a year. Not very talkative about her past, except if it pertains to a patient, but she's mentioned Gaius a couple of times, as someone she studied with a long time ago. Before Camelot's Purge, I would imagine."

"Has she," Merlin murmured – and Mithian glanced at him sharply, but could discern nothing from his expression, other than that he was intently interested.

The infirmary was just next to the library, an enormous L-shaped room with one wing devoted to patient residency and care, and the other to the study and formulation of medicaments. Cupboards and drying-racks and bookshelves lined the walls, equipment littered a pair of tables in crowded organization. A fire crackled comfortably in the hearth, and Alice was just turning from bandaging the hand and wrist of a soldier who swung his legs boyishly off the edge of an empty table.

"Oh!" Alice said, noticing their trio. Wiping her hands on the apron she wore over a plain brown wool dress – reflexively, if she'd just been doing a bandage – she came toward them slowly, her eyes lowered.

"Alice," Mithian said, "this is Merlin of Camelot, Gaius' apprentice, who's come to be my suitor."

"Yes, I know," Alice said, reaching them. The pink of her round cheeks had nothing to do with the level of heat in the room, and after a quick keen glance at Merlin, she dropped her gaze again. "Gaius told me about you."

"He did?" Mithian said, puzzled. Rodor had employed Alice while Uther was yet alive, last autumn, but Merlin had been in Camelot, with Gaius, for less than five years, if she wasn't mistaken.

"I've been here three days," Merlin said to her. "I didn't even know you were here – why didn't you come say hello? Or write to Gaius where you were, at least?"

"You two know each other?" Mithian asked, curious. That would mean that their healer had spent _some_ time in Camelot recently, before coming to them. Interesting.

The healer watched the soldier make his way past them – with a bow for Mithian and Gunnor – to the door, and excuse himself, to leave them alone. Then she focused on and reached for Merlin's hand – and he let her do it in a distracted way - declaring softly, "Merlin saved my life."

"That's not true," Merlin returned, gripping the hand of the plump, grand-motherly woman in a more intentional way. "You helped Arthur to save his father – and he vouched for you to spare your life."

"That's not what I meant." Alice sighed and hesitated, then looked at Mithian and Gunnor – who were probably equally intrigued, though Mithian was better at containing herself. "Last mid-autumn, I brought a manticore into Camelot, to kill Uther."

"What?" Mithian said, incredulous. Their gentle, feminine healer – a cold and calculating killer?

"A manticore," Gunnor breathed. A nine-year-old boy had different concerns, obviously. "What's that?"

"An evil creature of magic," Merlin told him, seemingly unperturbed by Alice's admission. "About so big –" he measured the size of an average dog with his hands.

"I have a picture in one of these books," Alice said, going to her shelf. "I am sorry I didn't tell your family this when I arrived, Mithian, but I was just so glad to be free of the creature's thrall – and embarrassed that I had ever been so enslaved in the first place. That is what I meant when I said, Merlin saved my life."

"What happened with the creature?" Mithian asked, glancing over Gunnor's shoulder and shuddering at the picture. That thing, the size of a lapdog. She was curious also, how Alice had been forced into its service, and how that worked – but that would be too rude for her breeding, to ask.

"Not all magic is good, or even neutral, Prince Gunnor," Alice addressed the boy, and the sorrow Mithian had sometimes glimpsed in the older woman was present once again. "And any form of power can corrupt. The desire for more power, nearly always. In our studies, Gaius was content to learn what he could not do… but I was not. I thought, with more power at my disposal, what more good I could do in healing horrible wounds or curing fatal diseases…"

She trailed off for a moment, and Merlin reached to cup his hand around her shoulder, quietly compassionate. Mithian thought it was a very good thing that someone like him was able to be so impartial.

"I thought I could control the magic of a creature from another plane of existence, and opened a portal to summon it," Alice continued. "But I was unprepared for its strength – and it took control of me." Gunnor leered at the illustration in curious disgust. "It forced me to Camelot, where I used its poison to taint one of the medicines Gaius was used to giving Uther. It did not care if my old and dear friend took the blame for the king's death – but neither did it care a great deal when I was arrested, instead. I wonder, sometimes, whether it might have found someone else to possess, after my execution…"

Beside Mithian, Merlin shuddered.

"So how did you kill it?" Gunnor demanded, glancing from the healer to Merlin.

"Creatures like the manticore, summoned from another plane, don't belong in our world," Alice told him. "It would come through the portal to give me commands or… and, to make sure its will was accomplished. But it resided on its own side."

"So you summoned him…" Gunnor turned expectantly to Merlin, who gave him a self-deprecating grin.

"Yes, and it almost didn't work. And then King Arthur and Elyan – that's Sir Elyan now, and he's going to be brother-in-law to the king – had to fight the creature off with swords and fire-irons, while Gwen – that's Sir Elyan's sister, the one who's going to be queen – and I screamed and jumped up on the top of the cabinets –"

Mithian swatted his arm in teasing disbelief. "You did not."

He shrugged. "All I did was to destroy the box it came through, trapping it and cutting off its life-force."

"You collapsed the portal between worlds," Alice corrected softly. "If you knew the time and energy that took me to construct…"

"Sorry?" Merlin offered, still grinning.

Alice shook her head. "Gaius didn't even seem surprised. Nor Arthur, but he doesn't – didn't – understand much about magic."

Mithian stood right next to him, very close, and thought, it took much deliberately open-minded study of the young man and a good bit of intuition, to see Merlin's depths. Powerful magic, left unused when it wasn't needed – and he held nothing against this woman for her part in a plot of regicide that endangered not only his mentor, but his prince and his other friends. Not to mention himself.

"So did it just – get tired of fighting and lie on the floor and die?" Gunnor said, frowning as if dissatisfied with the story's conclusion, and intent upon all the details he could glean.

"Nope. It exploded into invisible bits, just as it was leaping for Arthur's head," Merlin told him, understanding and indulging, like a grown-up boy himself.

"Wow," Gunnor breathed.

Mithian rolled her eyes to Alice. "We came to ask if you might like Merlin's extra pair of hands around here."

"Since I'm not the sort of suitor to sigh and swoon around the princess' feet," Merlin added impishly, "and make her sit in the garden while I recite poetry I've written to her freckles and fingernails and try to strum an out-of-tune lute."

"Thank heavens," Mithian said fervently, her heart lifting effervescently with his teasing humor.

Alice's cheeks were bunched in a merry expression. Gunnor said disgustedly, "Her fingernails?"

"The prettiest part of a woman's hands," Merlin declared facetiously to the boy.

Mithian had to rein in a sudden urge to check that hers were neat and clean; Gunnor made a worse noise, and decided he was finished with their company, skipping out the door and leaving it ajar.

Alice said teasingly, "If Gaius has taught you, then I can trust you to prepare an elderberry syrup without poisoning the batch?"

Merlin grinned, and Mithian began to turn toward the door, intending to leave them to it. His hand on her elbow startled her, because in their infrequent touches, she invariably initiated. He said softly, puzzled, "You're not staying?"

She almost said, _Why_? But intuited something of his answer – and further, that it might be uncomfortable for him to admit, or at least to express out loud. She glanced at Alice, who smiled contentedly and nodded both welcome and approval. Of what, exactly or cumulatively, Mithian could not define.

"After all," Merlin added, "Your day's work in the library is already done." His eyes twinkled playfully, and Mithian found him in his entirety – his humor, his intelligence, the tilt of his head and the way he held his body – nearly irresistible, in the moment.

"Perhaps you should use magic in your preparations also," Mithian said, and because she was a bit breathless, the sarcasm did not sound the way she meant it to. "Then you will be done in a flash, and we can go back to boring each other with our company."

He grinned and slipped his hand down to hers, capturing and keeping it as he turned to follow Alice's directions to materials and equipment in the infirmary.

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.4.11 "The Hunter's Heart". And, the spell Merlin uses is taken from ep.1.5 "Lancelot", amended slightly for a general rather than specific (forged charter of ancestry) use. "** _ **Thaes gediht**_ **" meaning "this** **piece of writing, composition, literary work."**

 **(Elderberry syrup is good for relieving flu-like symptoms, but since the plant contains cyanide, it must be professionally prepared. *wink*)**


	16. Mithian (4)

**Chapter 16: Mithian** (4)

One week passed, then another. Intuition and the wordless yearning Mithian had felt in the weeks between her proposal and his arrival – met and merged. Though the words had not been spoken, intentions were clarified by the day, and Mithian excused herself whenever she thought of Merlin as _hers_.

They went on walks, like a courtship in Ealdor. They met early before meals and took the wrong – long – way to the dining room. Mithian discovered, with mild surprise, that their hours spent apart in industry stimulated the conversation when they were together, rather than otherwise.

And, they weren't strictly apart, the whole time she was in the library, or he in the infirmary. Once the first day, she looked up from her quill and parchment at her desk to see him between bookshelves, hands clasped behind his back and jacket casually unbuttoned, head bent to scrutinize the writing on the spines of the books. She watched him for only a few moments, neither moving nor saying anything, before he straightened and turned his head to meet her eyes. And smiled. And reached for a book and retreated.

And somehow, she was happier for the silence than for any comment he might have made.

The second day, _more_ than once she glanced up to see him. Putting the book back or selecting a different one, or just showing himself to smile and wave.

The third day, she decided to slip into the infirmary to watch him. He had his back to the door – Alice saw Mithian, and smiled but said nothing – and was grinding something in a small stone bowl. In his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up on his forearms, the muscles of his arms, shoulders and back moving with subtle strength. As he chatted animatedly with the healer about the ingredients for some remedy – she'd missed what ailment it was for – preparation technique, measurements, and timing.

And then he looked over his shoulder at her – and his grin lit up his face.

Her heart bumped out of rhythm, and she told herself she was glad he seemed happy, content with the arrangement that kept him from his home, his friends and his king, for this extended time.

The second week, it seemed they both had grown confident that a sudden appearance would not interrupt the other person – and in fact, would be welcomed. _What are you doing_ , sort of questions. Mithian found herb-lore more interesting than she ever had before – and decided that she loved witnessing Merlin's intelligence and skill in the healer's field.

The first fortnight of Merlin's visit stretched toward the first month. The first snow fell, flakes tiny and light – then clumping wetly together in amazing free-falling gobs that caught on the grass and dripped off the roofs – then finally dissolved into a steady lasting rain that filled their grassy moat knee-high and carved muddy furrows past the buildings of the town, down the hill.

Mithian began to feel like she had never had a friend, before. Or that she never understood the concept. His presence was steady and supportive and seemingly unconditional. When she grew downhearted at the thought of actually leaving Nemeth he was patient – when she snapped annoyed at Ybor, Merlin listened uncomplainingly and didn't take offense at her mood.

She still took his elbow when they walked. Once reached to adjust the collar of his tunic before dinner, ignoring his blush and nervous swallow. Sometimes they sat so close that arms or legs brushed briefly. And sometimes he took her hand for a kiss of salutation. He didn't try for more, and she wondered why – and then considered that she was too shy, after all, to initiate.

One night he missed dinner, without excuse. Mithian was the only one alarmed, but Alice was not in the infirmary, so she had to wait til morning to check with Refan – who didn't believe their guest had returned to his chamber at all during the night – and with the healer, once again.

Entering the infirmary quietly, she found Merlin sitting at one of the tables, leaning on his elbow with his head on his hand, fingers shoved into disheveled hair, and face dropped too low to see his expression properly. Jacket discarded and shirt rumpled. Mithian started toward him and Alice stood from the corner to catch her arm and explain, in a very low voice.

"We were too late to save the baker's daughter. Though the baby survived, thanks to Merlin…"

She wondered if, as a physician, this was the first time he'd lost a patient.

"Just leave him be," Alice advised.

Mithian watched him. She believed she was seeing him at his lowest point; she was a little in awe of that. She wanted to offer him more than just comfort, support, or sympathy – maybe there wasn't a word for it. And if he allowed that, if he needed that, if he let her inside these most vulnerable feelings…

He didn't move, and after a few moments, she approached and eased onto the seat at right angles to him. It didn't seem like he'd even noticed, and she said nothing. Just slipped her fingers into the hand that lay limply on the tabletop, and held it. She didn't squeeze or rub – watching him for any sign that he resented her intrusion. Didn't offer any condolences that he must surely know already – _it wasn't your fault, you did everything you could_ – that wouldn't feel true or comforting at the moment.

It might have been an hour, that they sat so. It might have been more. He finally shuddered, drew in a deep breath and straightened, then exhaled. She watched him return from wherever he had retreated – realize her presence – and give her such a smile that stopped her heart in her throat and her breath in her throat.

And he turned to Alice to ask for another task.

Alice sent him to bed instead, but Mithian could not stop thinking that she had seen him, that day, more clearly than in all his stories about his childhood, or his adventures – told as an adventure, but she was beginning to read him between the lines of dashing and daring and humor – in Camelot with Arthur and the knights.

One afternoon she realized that, perhaps due to absent-minded daydreaming, she had copied the same paragraph into her manuscript twice over. Which ruined not only the entire sheet of parchment, but several hours of work, since she was already halfway down the second side of the sheet. Frustrated and thinking herself alone, she vented her feelings with a few choice training-field phrases picked up from her brothers and their comrades over the years.

And looked up to find Merlin just reaching the end of an aisle between bookshelves, stepping into the center area – and startled at her language.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she turned her back, doubly humiliated, and miserable. Anyone but him.

But he only came to her, saying with concern in his voice, "What's wrong?"

She confessed her mistake – excused her language shame-facedly.

His smile indicated that he didn't think any less of her – which was probably more than she could've expected from some knight or lord's son – and he said, "Shall I fix it for you?"

Wordlessly she watched his eyes flare – again that amazing unspoken magic, that did exactly what he wanted without the formation of a specific spell – and the mistakenly added paragraph vanished without a mark.

She could've kissed him, then.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mithian could hear the baby's gurgle before she reached the bend in the hall, past the infirmary and toward the kitchens, and slowed her steps. Peeking around the corner, she was transfixed by the sight of her brother and his wife and their four-month-old son.

Beneath the corner window, in a spot that was always warm because of the proximity of the kitchen hearth, there was a comfortable chair with solid rather than open arms, and a low back. Crissa was seated there, holding the baby prince on her lap, supported in the crook of her elbow.

Maybe Ybor had found them there, or maybe they'd been spending time together and decided to relax a few moments; he perched on one of the chair's arms, leaning on its back behind and above Crissa. He bent forward to make a delightedly silly face at his son, and chuck the plump cheek with his forefinger. Crissa watched his face with a sort of joyful satisfaction that warmed to love as Ybor transferred his gaze to her.

Then he cupped her face in his hand, tipping her head back to meet her lips. He kissed her sweetly – Mithian couldn't look away – and then with rising passion.

Her breathing quickened as her heart lifted in her chest with longing, and tears obscured her view of her brother's family, and all of the emotion they seemed to have comprehended to enjoy.

His love affected her wholehearted yielding, which produced the baby – which pleased the young father and caused him to love his wife all the more for the priceless gift she'd given him. His appreciation for her labor of love – his love for the son she'd borne – made him even more dear to her. To be closer to a person, did not seem possible.

And she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it. All of it.

"Mithian?" Merlin's voice was low, calculated not to carry far.

She blinked and looked up at him – she'd put her back to the wall hidden by the corner, and he faced her, leaning slightly out to see what she'd seen. The happy little family – baby, mama, and papa.

"Are you all right?" he continued, shifting out of sight of the others in the chair under the window at the far end of the hall. Returning his gaze to her, pure concerned blue, and her heart ached all the more – though not in an unpleasant way.

"Yes, I just…" She gestured, trying to explain. "Seeing my sister-in-law, with her husband and their child. It makes me think."

His look was innocent puzzlement, and she wondered if she should shrug off her reaction – or try to reach an even deeper level in their relationship.

"It makes me think," Mithian repeated deliberately, "about me – and you. That if we marry – when we marry – I might have a child. We might have children." His expression shifted toward dawning realization, full of satisfactory wonder. She added lightly, "I could give you a son."

And then.

His smile vanished. His face paled in an expression of true shock, bordering on terror which was much more than just, a young bachelor's trepidation when faced with this particular topic.

"What's the matter?" she said instantly. If she had been someone else she might have taken offense at his reaction – but she wasn't.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. Backed away from her into the opposite wall – felt his way down their hall a few steps – came to a halt leaning on the stone, fingers bent as if to grip the smooth face, his other hand a fist half-raised at his side.

She followed him silently, placed herself facing him, and waited.

He contemplated her – didn't try to smile – swallowed and closed his eyes and composed himself, dropping his hands to his sides though still leaning his shoulder on the wall.

"My father," he said. She nodded, understanding and encouragement. "Was forced to flee our home by rumors of Uther's men hunting him, before my mother knew that… she was going to give him a son."

Mithian kept quiet, fairly sure that his consternation did not stem from a fear that he would likewise be driven from her side, somehow.

"He did not return – we thought he died." Merlin took a deep breath. "I… came to Camelot, to Gaius, to learn." She nodded again. "I… found the Great Dragon – Uther kept him a chained captive, under the citadel."

Again, something she'd known. She could remember more than one occasion in her childhood, her brothers making adolescent plans to storm Camelot's citadel – impossible – and free the creature.

"I heard his voice before I'd been there a full day. I… befriended him. There were times when – things happened, Arthur's life was threatened. I went to him for help. He was the first one to tell me, Arthur was the Once and Future King destined to unite the land – but he would face many threats. And that was the purpose of my magic, to fight for and with Arthur. Two years later, I… chose to set the dragon free. I knew he was angry – I saw glimpses of what he would do, but…" Merlin took another deep breath; clearly this memory was one that bothered him. "He attacked Camelot."

"We did hear that news," Mithian confirmed softly, her heart aching – she knew him well enough by now to realize he would consider himself responsible.

"He returned, and the next night. We didn't know what to do – my magic wasn't strong enough to stop him – he wouldn't listen. Then Gaius said, a Dragonlord." His hand found hers, and gripped it. "His name was Balinor, and he was my father. He'd lived alone for years, in a cave – he was bitter, and fearful, but he came to help Camelot anyway. He came to help _me_. He said, _I don't_ _know what it is to have a son_ …"

Merlin dropped his gaze to the floor, and Mithian moved closer to see more of his face. She'd known the facts – but like many of his stories, the hidden details were heartrending.

"I don't know what it is to have a son," he repeated, in a whisper.

She had lost her own mother six years ago, though she did have excellent examples to follow in Amylia and Crissa – and of course they would have Merlin's mother, as far as examples and support in parenting. But it would be selfish to try to gather his attention to herself, at this moment.

"I understand that it happens slowly, over time," she said instead. "We'll have months to adjust to the idea before a baby is born. And you won't have to turn out a fully grown young man, honorable and respectable and intelligent and compassionate, immediately. My father says there's plenty of time to make and fix plenty of mistakes – no person is perfect, so no parent is perfect – especially if there's good raw material there to work with."

Merlin didn't meet her eyes, though he listened – and after a moment nodded like he accepted her reassurance. Then he took another deep breath.

"But Princess, my firstborn son will be a dragonlord also," he said, spiking a breathless exhilaration and apprehension in her, to realize this rather obvious truth for the first time. "Someday. Next spring I am meant to hatch an infant dragon, and… Before he died, killed by a sword meant for me, my father said to me, _When you face the dragon, remember to be strong. A dragon's heart is on its right side, not its left_. And that was all, all I learned about my heritage and responsibility from my father – how to kill them." He gave a shaky laugh that caught at her heartstrings. "Kilgarrah and I understand each other, I think, but… I went back to search my father's cave, to see if maybe he'd left anything. Books, papers – anything. But…"

"There was nothing?" Mithian guessed. Calm crept over her, to finally understand the cause of her suitor's disquiet. "Come with me, a minute."

She took his hand and led him, as he continued. "I've had no training – I thought Kilgarrah could surely help me with the new dragon – and anyway I know that if I have to, I can command it to refrain from any action that is destructive or detrimental. But I have no idea what to teach someone else – how to train… a child… my child…"

They were at the library, and the door was open. She led him inside, not down the usual aisle used to reach the central seating area, but to the last shelf, against the wall. One of her favorites when she'd been a child – so familiar she rarely came to them anymore, preferring to spend her time with works she hadn't read.

"These are all to do with magic," she told him. His jaw dropped, and she added, "Surely you have these in Camelot, too? Books on the history and use – and some of the historical users – of magic?"

"I think so," he managed. "There's a hidden room in the library, I haven't really had time to explore. The goblin put me off it, a little…"

Her turn to be surprised. "A _goblin_?"

"I'll tell you sometime," he said, reaching but not touching.

"Well," she said, turning her head sideways to skim the shelves visually, looking for size and color and the word – _dragon_ – "Here."

 _Dragonlords and Their Charges. The Bond of Dragonkin, Theoretical and Practical Treatises. A History_ _of Dragons and Their Lords. The Seasons of a Dragon, Health and Aging._

To name a few.

"Ay damn, Mithian," Merlin breathed.

She barely had time to register that he'd said her name for the first time. The next instant, he had gathered her close to him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and cradling her against his chest, enfolding her to rest his cheek on her hair.

Mithian held her breath for a heartbeat, then dared to pass her arms around his ribs, holding him too. It felt strange – far more intimate than hugging her family, even father or brothers – molding her body to his and feeling him struggle to breathe evenly. It felt forward – it felt good – it felt safe.

"No one has ever given me anything so precious," he whispered, pulling back.

She released him, swaying away also, but he wasn't finished expressing himself – he cupped her face in his hands, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, fervent and vulnerable and warm.

Mithian didn't know what to say. _You're welcome_. Something more flippant, like how it was in her interests as well, as the future mother of this future dragonlord – if that was what the current one wanted.

She was glad he had said, _something so precious_. Because she could consider that he'd been given other things _more_ precious than a shelf of dusty, faded books. Life itself, from his parents. A priceless upbringing by the splendid woman who was his mother. An education from Gaius – a single day to have and remember the father he'd thought dead. Freedom, from his king, and friendship.

But she didn't have to say anything. He turned back to the books as if he hadn't done anything extraordinary in kissing her somewhere that wasn't the back of her hand.

Mithian smiled at him, and went to advise Gunnor's tutor to conduct lessons elsewhere, and to arrange the noon meal for two to be brought to the library. Their guest wasn't to be disturbed.

And beside the growing stack on the desk Merlin had claimed, Mithian piled half her stock of parchment. A full inkwell, and a fresh quill. She wasn't sure he noticed, exactly, but he began to use them with relish, which was all the thanks she needed.

Mithian settled herself at her desk for the morning. She copied her tournament listing slowly, looking up often to watch Merlin devour the texts – exclaiming softly to himself, and then making a quick note on the parchment. Surely in time, these few dozen books could be copied, and given to him. But for now…

The servants had just departed from laying out a cold meal on an empty desk nearby, when Merlin rose with a scroll in his hand and strode over to her.

"Look at this," he said. The air itself fairly crackled with excitement near him, and she couldn't help smiling. "It's a record of ancestry. I mean, I've seen Bernard's, but that's different. These are – dragonlords, Mithian. All of them, going back…" He counted a moment –

 _He said my name again –_

Then raised shining eyes to hers. "Eleven generations. All connected, even though they're gone – Kilgarrah will remember some, I'm sure, and then the new dragon – and then…"

She took the scroll and studied it. Finding Balinor at the bottom – and space had been left by some hopeful record-keeper. She dipped her own quill to freshen the ink, then added, neat and small: _m. Hunith_ , a small line pointing downward, and _Merlin_.

He said, breathless and doubtful, "You can just – do that?"

Mithian gave him her fullest, most roguish grin. _Didn't I just?_

Something fired in his eyes, too suddenly for her to define. His eyes captured her mouth – flicked back up to hers questioningly – and then he was _there_ , before she could lean back, molding his lips softly to hers.

Merlin had such a beautiful mouth. Sparks flitted haphazard as butterflies through her to realize _he was kissing her_.

He made no effort toward kindling passion, the way Ybor had done with his wife – but when Merlin withdrew, it was only fractionally… and then he kissed her again. And _again_ – and that time she gathered her wits sufficiently to answer his kiss.

And maybe that made him realize, and reconsider, and he pulled back.

She knew she was blushing – and grinning like a loon – but it seemed to reassure him. So then he blushed and grinned, and dropped his eyes – and that served to steady her. He felt the same as she – surprise and delight and probably _more-later_ - _sometime-when_? No embarrassment and no regret, just innocent and entirely appropriate pleasure.

A deeper level to their relationship.

"Are you hungry?" she said. "I don't know if you noticed, but – they've brought us food."

They remained in the library for the rest of the day. Mithian curled up in a comfortable window-seat to read and nap, and sent their excuses for dinner. In return, her father sent more food than they needed, again.

When the candles were burning low, she gave up. She understood the draw for Merlin, and loved his craving for the knowledge of his heritage, but she did not feel it so keenly.

"Merlin," she said, leaning over him – and a moment later, spread her hand over his page. He looked up, deep circles under his eyes – and even deeper joy within them. "It will all be here tomorrow."

He stood from his chair without shifting his feet. "I know," he said quickly. "You go on to bed – you didn't have to stay with me. It's just –" his mouth twisted wryly – "I couldn't sleep anyway. I've often sat up, don't worry about me."

Mithian hesitated, but decided that time would serve to calm his urgency, as he read his way further through the writings, and came to his own conclusion that complete and lasting focus was probably unnecessary.

"Good night then," she said, lifting her hand to stifle a yawn.

He caught it up again, just as she was letting it fall, and dropped a kiss more intimately on the palm of her hand. "My lady."

Was it her imagination that he stressed _my_. She didn't think so, and glowed all the way back to her chamber, all the way to sleep, to think that he considered her _his_ , also.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the morning, half the books had been put away, and half the parchment used – Mithian checked before breakfast.

And Merlin was already in the dining hall before she arrived, tired-eyed and excusing yawns, but happy. Ybor, evidently, could not understand why someone would forego sleep for a _book_ ; Merlin gave Mithian a private grin across the table that thrilled her.

Crissa remarked, "I find that I have more and more time on my hands since Baby is getting older. I wonder, does Alice have enough little assignments to keep both of us busy?"

"I am sure of it," Merlin declared.

Mithian spent the morning – a sunny one for early winter – at target practice with the archery butts. Merlin commented on her pink cheeks when he left the library to join her for the noon meal, and she felt warm to her toes again.

He came attentively to dinner, also – after which they took another circuitous route to parting. He didn't say anything of real importance – though their conversation sometimes lulled, it never lagged anymore – but Mithian didn't think she could be happier. She was sure he would _say something_ , soon.

The next morning, Mithian was surprised to break her fast with her two sisters-in-law, the children, and her father.

"Where are the boys?" she asked Amylia – who broke open a steaming muffin composedly.

"I'm not sure… I'm glad you've braided your hair like that today, it looks very pretty."

"It goes well with your dress," Crissa added, "and the boots were a good idea today." She smirked at the baby rocking in her arms, and Rodor smiled and nodded.

Mithian touched the two braids along the left side of her head – there were two others on the right – self-consciously.

After breakfast, she went looking for Merlin, and found him in the hall outside the armory. Dressed in the plain but warm-looking brown jacket, with a scarf wound around his neck, and… Carrying a crossbow.

"What do you intend to do with that?" she asked playfully.

He swung it up to rest one of the crosspieces against his shoulder; his eyes gleamed with fun as he approached her. "Come with me and I'll show you."

She turned, catching his extended elbow as he reached her – and when he didn't slow, she had to skip a little to keep pace.

"I apologize in advance," he added, "for the production this has grown into. I asked your brother one simple question, and…" He leaned to open the outside door and if she hadn't still been clinging stubbornly to his arm, she might've stopped still in surprise.

More than half a dozen saddled horses moved restlessly through the grassy lawn between stables and palace. Several servants dipped and ducked among them, carrying and fastening various bundles. Refan came toward them with Mithian's white-fur wrap stretched invitingly to protect her from the cold air. Behind him, she watched her brothers mount their horses, cheerfully issuing orders to the attendants – those coming along, and those staying behind. Beyond the natural bridge, she could hear the deep mournful yelps of impatient hounds awaiting the hunting party.

"What –" she began, without any idea what her question should be. Because it was obvious, wasn't it? what was going on, what he'd done.

Refan folded her wrap over her shoulders as she turned toward Merlin, and he reached to tuck the fur more warmly – more briefly. "Today is for you," Merlin said.

Even though he preferred smaller, quieter groups using their own skill – not the beaters' luck or the hounds' persistence. Even though her brothers had surely demanded a substantial escort – and then probably volunteered themselves, so as not to lose out on any fun. She could not see Merlin asking for the dogs, or the foot participants.

He held her horse's reins and stood at her stirrup, though she didn't need any help mounting, and she found her gloves laid across the bow when she swung into the saddle.

They had ridden to the blade-smiths to watch their magic, one clear afternoon, but that was the only time they'd taken horses on an outing, rather than using their own legs. She was surprised and pleased to see that he was quite a capable horseman, watching him keep his seat easily and comfortably, down the hill and up the next into the uninhabited lands of Nemeth.

"Despite," he explained lightly, "growing up in a village where there were no horses. Arthur's idea of teaching me about horses was all-or-nothing. Ride-or-fall, if I was going to accompany him on patrols, and of course mucking his stables as a frequent punishment."

"Your prince is lucky to have you," Antor called back. "If I'd been you, I'd have turned him into something unnatural, the first week."

"Give him a pair of ass's ears, and the bray to go with them?" Merlin suggested, with a grin that was positively wicked, and made Mithian suspicious, even as she giggled. "My lesson, the first week, was that it came at the price of my head, to teach _him_ lessons with magic."

"It seems like he learned plenty of them without magic," Mithian remarked, and Merlin smiled more proudly.

The sun was half-hidden that day by high thin clouds, but there was no wind. The horse beneath her and the fur around her proved more than enough warmth – Merlin wasn't wearing gloves – as they rode in a desultory fashion, north in the direction of the Labyrinth, though it was too far to reach and return, on this expedition.

It was colder in the deeper forest, though, and they spread out naturally, footmen and mounted hunters, both. The hounds bayed a few winter-whitened hares, but were not allowed loose to chase them.

"I told you," Mithian said to Merlin, who rode nearer to her than anyone else, "it's better when you're one of the hunters riding – and not forced to participate."

"I guess I can't complain when it was my idea," Merlin sighed – then shot her a grin.

As time passed and the group meandered leisurely, holding little cohesiveness, Mithian found the two of them away on the right flank, several lengths behind her brothers in casual conversation with each other in the lead.

"It's unusual, isn't it," Merlin said to her, "for brothers who are princes, to get along so well?"

"My father raised them that way," Mithian answered, studying the ground around them. "He encouraged them to love each other as their best ally – and he taught them the roles of leader and follower. That sometimes Ybor could have better ideas, and Antor could follow without relinquishing honor – instead gaining it. And Ybor never would resent a brother-king who listened and valued his counsel – and the only way he would wear the crown was to lose his best friend first. Of course they fought, as boys, but…"

She trailed off, distracted. The tracks weren't clear, over cold-hardened ground, but none of their party's horses had come this way; if it was a stag it was a big one.

"They grew up?" Merlin guessed the conclusion of her comment.

Something rustled in the low spreading spruce branches, not quite twenty paces away, down to their right. Mithian unhooked her crossbow, kicked her right leg over her horse's withers and dropped down to the ground, moving her hood away from her face, down her back. Letting the reins trail to keep her well-trained mount in place, she slid a bolt in the groove and wound the crossbow, prowling around the horse's rear toward her quarry.

A moment later Merlin joined her – empty-handed but nearly silent, behind and staying clear of her elbow, which she appreciated. He surely knew how to accompany a hunter.

"There," she whispered, raising the crossbow to point at the beast, whatever it was.

The air was still; it might scent them, or it might not. Balancing carefully, and setting her feet even more carefully, she inched toward it.

"Can't tell what it is?" Merlin breathed in her ear.

She shivered, and it wasn't the cold. He sounded tense with anticipation – and with him, she knew it wasn't lust for the kill, either, just situational excitement.

They didn't need such a large animal for the meat, bone, or hide. She'd take aim as near to the creature as she could – startling it away and victorious if she hit whatever tree-knot was her mark. It moved again, as if to emerge from between two of the spruce – was it white? – and Merlin inexplicably reached for her crossbow. At the _end_ , where the sharpened bolt under keen tension protruded.

She sucked in a breath, lowering her weapon away from his hand, even as he said in a low, urgent voice, "No – _don't_!"

"Merlin, what…"

Once again her question slid away under growing comprehension. Four long slender legs, a gleaming white hide, arched neck and flowing silver hair – calm liquid eye, and an ivory-spiral horn dividing the long silky forelock.

 _Heaven and earth, a_ unicorn _._

But they weren't that close to the Labyrinth, what was it doing way out –

Merlin stepped forward, palms out. One to caution her – as if she needed it anymore – and one to reassure the creature.

It turned its head slightly – took a step back – pawed the ground with a fore-hoof.

And let Merlin approach. Slowly, quietly – confidently – her heart was in her mouth. A human man, when all the legends said… when even she had never actually seen one of the shy creatures whose sanctuary hid them so well. It allowed Merlin to come very close – it stretched its neck to whuff at him, and nickered softly, so she almost gasped in wonder.

She did gasp when Merlin's hand, raised to her, turned to beckon, though he didn't look away from the unicorn. Heart thumping – was this what life was like around Merlin? – she bent to lay her crossbow on the frozen ground, then crept carefully toward them.

The unicorn watched her. She was sure, if she looked close enough, she could see her own reflection in that dark eye.

She reached Merlin, and he gathered her hand in his – they were both transfixed by the unicorn. It dipped its head, brushing Mithian's skirt with its horn, then arched its neck to delicately nose into Merlin's other hand.

He was transcendent. Almost an inhuman incarnation of pure magic; she could see it the way she saw that the unicorn was not just a wild white horse, and it made her want to weep. No other man on earth could stand next to her and share this experience; when she touched him, she touched a whole other world.

The unicorn snorted, abruptly wheeling to gallop away – slowing almost immediately to a deliberate and graceful trot.

Merlin turned from watching it disappear into the underbrush – he was alight with a different sort of magic that shone blue in his eyes and he _looked_ at her, all the way through. She couldn't begin to guess what he saw; she could feel that she was smiling – on the verge of laughing, maybe – and blinked two tears to run freezing down her face.

He dropped her hand to step so close they collided gently – cupped her face in both hands, as he'd done in the library – and kissed her. But not on her forehead.

She gripped his forearms as his mouth moved on hers – and he didn't stop – and he didn't stop.

He shifted closer. She wrapped her arms around him as far as they could go and gripped him fiercely – his mouth was sweet and warm –

The whole world was spring, sunlight blinding through apple blossoms.

His passion was generous. He gave and gave, inviting her to taste him and take him, asking only to be accepted in return, and she gasped into his mouth for the beautiful pain of finally having what she'd wanted for quite some time now.

He made a sound of helpless pleading, threading his fingers into the thick curls down the back of her neck, and broke away minutely; he was breathing hard and she was dizzy from melting all the way down from her lips to her toes.

"Mithian," he said against her ear – and kissed her ear, teasing the lobe with his tongue.

Her gasp was audible, then, the heat within exploding upward rather than trickling downward. And for a single disconcerting moment the memory of his body on hers as the world came down around them in the ruins occurred to her as though there was nothing between them – not air, not clothing – just _them_ , intimate in unity. Lightning crackled through her veins, igniting dry kindling –

Maybe he felt it too – he stumbled back a step, taking himself out of her arms, but she had to keep her hands on his ribs for balance, for a moment. His look was wild, stunned – and she was proud to have rattled him as much as he'd rattled her – but he settled as their eyes connected, asking and answering something beyond rational comprehension. His color was high, but not with embarrassment; he didn't immediately grin arrogantly or sputter excuses.

He only repeated her name, soft and fiery as his breath against the sensitivity of her ear and neck.

" _Mithian_ …"

And it happened, as swift and easy and naturally as that. She was in love, desperately in love with her future husband.

"Oy, you two!" one of her brothers shouted from a near distance.

She flinched rather badly, stumbling as she turned, but Merlin caught her elbow and steadied her.

"See anything?" Ybor called. "Because of course you dismounted to check for tracks, yes?"

Muffled snickers from the other men of the party, moving about through the trees. Mithian was sure her face was red as holly berries.

"Can't see anything with your eyes closed," Antor added – more quietly, but his voice carried.

"Damn them," she said with chagrin.

Then almost smiled to hear Merlin's low chuckle behind her, forgiving her brothers in an instant because such ecstasy was not only possible, it was _hers_ , and could happen again and again.

"What's that you say?" Ybor shouted, cupping his hand around his ear. Twisting in his saddle to address his brother aloud, "Think she's ready to go home already?"

"Why? We haven't been out here that long," Antor returned, as his mount stepped impatiently around his brother's, and he allowed it. "And she can't do _that_ , at home."

"She can't do that out here, either," Ybor retorted. "Merlin! Do we have to separate you two?"

Merlin caught her hand and led her back to her horse, bending to retrieve her crossbow. "I promise to behave myself," he called to the princes.

Mithian caught a bubble of laughter in her throat before it could sound for her brothers. More than one arch comment occurred to her – _well_ , I _didn't promise_. Or, _You promise to behave yourself_ badly?

He gave her a leg up, though she didn't really need it, and an extra-bright smile, before swinging up to his own saddle and leading her on his brown mare to join the others.

And the whole world was golden.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When had it begun? She couldn't even remember beginning to fall, it had started so gently. Speeding up lately, like a horse and rider gathering to jump an obstacle in the path.

"Oh," Crissa said, when Mithian greeted her sisters-in-law in the dining hall before dinner, wearing the gold-silk gown. "Oh, my. What did he –"

Mithian felt herself blushing-and-smiling. Again.

Amylia hummed, "The children, Crissa…"

And anyway, Ybor and Merlin were arriving together, the last to the table as Antor helped to settle his children, and Rodor balanced his youngest grandchild on his knee. Merlin was scarlet and beaming – Ybor gave him a little push toward Mithian.

"What?" she hissed, as he held her chair for her to be seated first.

"Your brother was just giving me a – brotherly warning," Merlin answered in a happy whisper.

Mithian rolled her eyes, but couldn't deny the thrill that shot through her to see him, to be close to him. To be able to watch him, and claim him in her heart. She was impatient – but at the same time, it was enjoyable to delay. They had all winter. She was sure Merlin would speak to her father – and they would be officially betrothed, deciding upon the when and how and where of the marriage ceremony…

"Beg pardon, my lord?" It was Refan, the steward's assistant, standing stiff and proper in the doorway to interrupt the clatter of dinnerware and the simple homey conversation that children brought to the table. "There's a messenger from Camelot."

His shadow moved through the arch into the light of the dining hall, a second man wearing a heavy woolen cloak over his rough traveling clothes. Dirt on his boots and a sword in his belt, and his hood was down to show a long mane of curly dark hair, and several weeks' worth of beard-growth on his chin. He looked terrible, to Mithian, though he smiled politely at the gathered company, in bowing to the king.

Merlin inhaled sharply the moment he came into the light, and was on his feet in an instant, pale and grim himself. " _Gwaine_?"

 **A/N: Slight wink at LOTR, "Fellowship". Ice cream with homemade chocolate syrup to anyone who caught it…**

 **And, couldn't resist beginning the drama/action here at the end of this chapter – sorry/not-sorry!**


	17. Mithian (5)

**Chapter 17: Mithian** (5)

 _Merlin inhaled sharply the moment the messenger came into the light, and was on his feet in an instant, pale and grim himself. "Gwaine?"_

 _Sir Gwaine?_ Mithian thought, _his friend? Why would a knight come as a_ –

The messenger stepped into the room, his hand raised as if to reassure Merlin – or hold him back – as he addressed King Rodor.

"I beg your pardon also, my lord," he said. "Circumstances have changed, and King Arthur has need of Merlin's services – at least for a time. I – we hope that we can return him to you to complete this visit before too long."

"Is Arthur all right?" Merlin's question snapped in the air – with tension rather than temper.

The messenger made a placating motion with his hand – but didn't answer, and didn't look at the young sorcerer.

"Certainly," Rodor said, answering the messenger's air of expectancy – but it seemed to Mithian, he was also surprised that Merlin's question went unanswered. "I hope it is nothing serious?"

"As do I," the messenger answered smoothly, then looked at her – the rest of the table, but back at her – and bowed. "I beg your pardon also, my lords and ladies, for depriving you of my friend – but there is news to be told, and plans to be made – we must leave at first light in the morning."

"So soon?" Crissa wondered.

"The need is urgent, my lady," the messenger responded courteously.

Merlin moved abruptly, striding out from the table to shepherd the messenger toward the door – the bearded man resisted for an instant, til Merlin half-turned and said, "Excuse me," to the room.

"Of course," Rodor said genially – raising his eyebrows to his family.

"What's going on?" Gunnor asked from between his uncle and Merlin's empty chair.

Mithian stood also, meeting her father's eyes with a question – he nodded, and she hurried after the men, in her capacity as the loyal almost-betrothed of one of them, rather than a concerned hostess representing another sovereign kingdom.

It was a good thing she knew where they were headed, because they were moving fast, and not talking. Which was a little surprising – unless the messenger refused to give his message til they were private in Merlin's room. The stranger heard her, though, and turned without breaking stride.

To explain herself initially, she said, "May we offer you the room next to Merlin's tonight? Is there anything you require – food, water, wine?"

"No, I'm fine," he said brusquely, and offered her a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you anyway, Princess. I'll share Merlin's, and then… we're going to be leaving anyway."

Merlin turned his head to look at his friend, for a pair of heartbeats, but didn't slow.

Mithian added, "May I accompany you? Not on your trip, I mean –" though why not? she was as good a rider as any man – "just now?" She didn't say, _unless it is a private message_ – because that would give him the chance of agreeing, and then she would be dismissed.

"It's up to him," the messenger said noncommittally.

When Merlin didn't say anything, Gwaine shrugged to her as they reached the stairs – Merlin began to leap determinedly up two at a time, and the messenger only a step behind him. Mithian gathered her skirts, crumpling the gold silk, and skipped up in their wake.

She'd had scant opportunity to enter one of their guest rooms, even when her suitor was not in residence, but her first thought was, _We have servants for this_. Her second thought was, _He_ _used to_ be _a servant_.

The bedcovers and pillows were rumpled and crooked on the bed, the rug kinked and kicked up on itself, the wardrobe door was open, the red tunic hung over the back of a chair next to the table, which itself had not been swept properly clean of crumbs, though the remaining mess was confined to one place setting.

Her third thought was, _I'm glad he's comfortable here_.

Entering first, Merlin bent to scoop his own cloak from the floor, flung it negligently over the open door of the wardrobe – then abandoned the half-hearted inclination to tidy for guests, or begin to pack for an unexplained trip. Turning, he lifted his hands to his hips and glared at the messenger, an expression Mithian had never seen on his face before.

" _Is Arthur all right_?"

Mithian closed the door behind them, and leaned back against it.

Gwaine spread his hands, clearly reluctant. "I don't know… He's alive though. I'm pretty sure."

Merlin breathed through his nose like he'd just surfaced from a long dive in a deep lake. "Why don't you know. Why aren't you in Gawant. What happened."

Gwaine unfastened his cloak and slung it over the opposite chair, facing the sorcerer across the table and moving like he was sore and stiff from the saddle. "Almost a week ago Elyan came to Gawant."

Mithian remembered, _That's Sir Elyan now, and he's going to be brother-in-law to the king…_

"He told me. Three weeks earlier, after you left, Arthur received word of raiders along the border with Caerleon, they'd taken Stonedown."

Merlin's hands clenched, and Mithian remembered a story he'd told her about bandits in his own village – and how Arthur had ridden across the border out of Camelot to save them.

"Arthur rode out with the patrol to stop the bandits, and free Stonedown," the messenger continued. Merlin made a rude noise, and swung away restlessly. "Only one man came back, bringing a message from King Caerleon that Arthur had been captured – that he was well but they intended to keep him hostage."

Merlin spat a single foul word that raised Mithian's eyebrows – did he remember she was standing there? – but didn't seem to faze his friend.

"Leon and Brenner rode out to meet with Caerleon, hear his demands and see about Arthur, so he was alive then, and even eating at Caerleon's table. Elyan said, Leon said."

Merlin's lips pressed into a thin white line, and his nostrils flared. He shook his head, turning to gaze at the floor and move restlessly, not really pacing.

"Elyan told me, Leon had a hard time with the council – though it is a hard situation." Gwaine glanced at Mithian as if remembering that she wasn't yet married into Camelot – though Nemeth was an ally. "They can't send the army to war with Caerleon, as much for Arthur's safety as for the extreme cost of such a move…"

As the daughter of a king, Mithian understood. The lives of the men at stake, the cost to the kingdom of supplying the campaign, the vulnerability of the rest if the main fighting force left the capital, the reactions of the other surrounding kingdoms – and all of it as the world froze toward winter.

"The council evidently voted to forbid Leon from asking _anyone_ for help with magic. And Leon, as acting regent, evidently refused to sign any accord with Caerleon unless Arthur ordered him to – which he won't do," Gwaine concluded. "So. Leon gave Elyan leave when he asked, and he came to visit me and my new bride –"

New bride – Gawant – so this was the dashing, heroic knight who'd won and married Princess Elena. Mithian blinked and looked at him with new eyes, and hoped that Elena was happy. He was very handsome in spite of the exhaustion, and seemed also level-headed and good-humored.

"Because I told Leon that I came from Caerleon originally, when I was knighted," Gwaine went on. "Of course he asked me about possible conflicting loyalties – you know Leon."

Merlin stilled, his arms crossed over his chest and his chin down, but his eyes fixed on his friend.

"His hands are tied, as much as the council's," Gwaine said, his concentration intensifying also. "But mine and yours –"

"Let's go," Merlin said tersely, wheeling to stalk toward Mithian at the door, startling her with the movement and his intention, both.

"In the morning," Gwaine answered. "It's already dark now." And, Mithian rather thought, if he'd traveled here from Gawant, he'd need a night's sleep before continuing on to Caerleon.

"Then we'll go with magic." Merlin changed direction, holding out his hand for Gwaine – who backed away. Merlin stopped but didn't drop his hand. "I can take both of us right to him, no matter where he is."

"Across two kingdoms?" Gwaine said.

"Yes. Probably. Right to his sword, maybe."

It put Mithian in a cold sweat to think of what he was suggesting – instant-transportation spells were powerful, dangerous magic, and he said it so easily, so carelessly.

"Which they wouldn't have left with him," Gwaine argued – it seemed his concern was slightly different than Mithian's. "Stop and _think_ this time, Merlin."

Merlin made a frustrated noise and spun, kicking the leg of a chair that was in his way. Mithian took two steps forward without thinking, right into his path. He met her eyes – his deep and clouded with pain and worry and restlessness – for a moment. She didn't say anything, didn't reach to touch him, but he sighed and released a little of his anxiety.

"I figure," Sir Gwaine went on, including her with his glance, "I can arrive at Caerleon's castle and claim my father's connections to get inside. Me and my servant." He grinned, but Merlin didn't react. "I can distract the king and queen playing company, and you can sneak Arthur out. Because if we come like an army, using your magic with brute force, their first reaction is going to be to use their hostage. You can't bring the castle down with Arthur inside – and no one wants you to kill dozens of people, Arthur probably most of all."

Merlin pressed a fist to his forehead, white-knuckled, as if resisting his friend's logic, searching the backs of his eyelids for another option. Then finally nodded. "Gwaine, if they hurt him in the meantime – if they've hurt him – a whole damn _month_."

This was the Merlin she'd glimpsed between the light-hearted lines of his tales of adventure in Camelot, Mithian thought. Stern and focused.

"I know," Gwaine said. "Listen, let's get some sleep – Highness, if we could have supplies arranged, we can see to our own horses in the morning. It'll be the better part of three days hard ride to reach Caerleon's stronghold."

Mithian nodded, but made no move to leave. "What of your lady wife?" she asked, keeping her tone even and low.

"Left her in Camelot with Gwen and Ally. She understands." Gwaine smiled in a way that spoke of happiness and satisfaction, and Mithian was glad for both of them.

"Will Caerleon know that you come from Camelot?" she asked. "Will he know that you've sworn your loyalty to his hostage?"

The knight cringed and glanced at Merlin, as if he recognized that flaw in his plan, and had hoped that no one else would. Merlin's only response was to begin to stalk about the room, rummaging for one of his bags and to fill it with items and garments necessary for the trip. "Rumors fly, my lady… I can deny them all. If they remember anything of me, rather than just recognition of my father's name, they won't believe knighthood."

"If they believe you've risen in the world enough to have a servant, will they believe you have a wife," Mithian said, calmly, making an effort to calm her racing heartrate. "May I come with you. And this time, I do mean along on your trip."

"No," Merlin said, shortly and crossly, not even looking up from his rather violent fit of packing. It surprised, but didn't offend her.

"It might help throw Caerleon's suspicions off," Gwaine said thoughtfully. "If we come with a woman. But it would be dangerous – your father would never let you."

"I can ride," Mithian informed him, without protesting or begging. It was a very bleak thought, to be left behind; she wanted to be part of Merlin's life no matter what that included, but she wouldn't press if her presence put them in more danger. "I can shoot – and I can charm the king and queen of Caerleon blind. I also think, Arthur would do something like this for any one of us here in Nemeth – so I want to help, if I can."

"Hm," Gwaine said, looking from her to Merlin. "Well, if your father allows it… This plan is meant to be accomplished by stealth and deception, rather than open steel…"

"I will see you in the morning," Mithian told him – since Merlin wasn't paying either of them any attention. "To say farewell – or not."

Gwaine nodded. "Goodnight, my lady."

She waited a moment, but Merlin was still distracting himself rather angrily – now throwing things out of his bag. She ventured, "Merlin?"

He froze – and it took him a moment to begin to move again, facing her but not meeting her eyes, in giving a little bow. "Good night, Princess."

She didn't turn to leave, and after another unbearably long moment of uncertainty on her part, he came to her by the door, dropping his untidy pack on the table as he passed.

"I am sorry," he said, and the blue of his eyes was tumultuously dark. She knew he meant it, that he was apologizing for all the changes this made – for their immediate future, for their arrangement. Then he added, "I don't think you should come."

She didn't answer. She couldn't articulate a faint but ominous doubt that if she watched him ride away in the morning, he wouldn't be coming back. But there was more than one way to lose a person, she knew.

"They wouldn't dare harm me, even if your subterfuge is discovered," she said. "But I won't, if it will make you angry."

Then he looked at her face, and raised his hand to draw the backs of his fingers over her cheek, so gently it brought tears to her eyes. "I could never be angry at you," he said.

It wasn't true. Antor and Amylia had been married long enough that Mithian had seen first love dissolve into aggravation and misunderstanding and disagreement – but she'd also seen true love persevere and deepen and forgive, through those transitory emotions. You could be angry at the person you loved – though she couldn't imagine being angry at Merlin, at the moment – and actually have that heat forge a stronger relationship, instead of burning it to ashes.

"Please try to sleep," she added, catching and squeezing his hand, before she left. He didn't answer.

Mithian found the steward and gave him his orders – their three horses ready and provisioned a quarter-hour before first light – and because her chamber was on the way to her father's, she poked her head in to instruct Bronda in the packing of a bag of her own, the laying out of traveling clothes.

Light flickered under her father's door when she knocked – and she wasn't totally taken aback when her father's manservant opened to reveal Alice, stirring a measured spoonful of powder into a goblet of wine while King Rodor waited patiently at the small table in his quarters, head resting on his fist as he slouched in his chair.

"Just a headache, my dear," he answered her look of concern. "I love those children dearly, but they were excited when you and Merlin left with the messenger – and therefore twice as loud and hard to handle. Amylia was in tears at one point."

"I'm sorry," Mithian said, going to kneel on the rug just beside him, tucking her gown around her legs like she used to when she was small.

"Not your fault," he said easily, accepting the goblet from Alice with a nod of thanks. "What news?"

"Arthur is at odds with King Caerleon," she said, careful of how those from Camelot might want it told. "Caerleon holds a valuable hostage – Merlin is going to try to rescue him and break Caerleon's hold on Camelot, by subterfuge. I have offered to accompany them and pose as Sir Gwaine's wife, as he claims Merlin his servant."

Rodor said nothing, letting go of the goblet to drum his fingers on the table, gazing into the hearth-fire. Alice was wide-eyed and sober, replacing things slowly in her small medicines-pack by feel, to continue watching them. From his station near the door, the king's manservant gave an unexpected snort – and an abbreviated bow when the king turned to him.

"Her Highness is your child, my lord, as much as either of her brothers," he stated. The king only hummed thoughtfully.

Mithian added, "I know it will be dangerous, and I will be careful, but if I can help, I want to. Camelot often faces such unexpected situations, and if Merlin and I are to be married –"

Rodor glanced at her and sighed. "If you were one of your brothers, I wouldn't even consider telling you no, but approve wholeheartedly of aiding an ally in need," he said. "I know you can handle yourself, and I do not fear for your safety in other respects – Merlin is an honorable young man. He spoke to me this afternoon, after your hunting party returned."

She nodded, her throat closing with something like exhilaration. So Merlin desired their betrothal and marriage, enough to initiate this next step…

"Merlin's magic is quite capable of protecting her from harm, Your Majesty," Alice spoke up. "He'd give his life in her defense, you may be sure. And I will go with them myself, if perchance they need a healer, for the princess' reputation and as her lady's maid."

"You speak in favor of the plan?" the king asked with mild curiosity.

"I was betrothed, once." Alice gave her apple-cheeked smile to Mithian. "He wished to remain in a place of danger, making sacrifices to do what he thought was right, and I chose to leave. Who knows what would have happened, had we remained together… Yes, I think she should go with him, if that's what she wants and he is amenable."

Not quite, Mithian thought. But _I don't think you should_ , wasn't exactly the strongest dissuasion.

"Very well," Rodor said. He sighed and set his hand on Mithian's head, caressing the tiny braids pinned there. "I will miss you. Be sure to let us know the moment you are safe again."

"I promise," Mithian said.

"I will make my own preparations," Alice added, adjusting the strap of the medicines-pack over her shoulder, and heading for the door. "First light?..."

…..*….. …..*… ….*….. …..*….. ….*…..

Sundown the next day, and it was too late for Mithian to change her mind – as Alice had done at midday, composedly agreeing to meet them in Camelot, and alert Gaius and Leon and their friends about the actions being taken. Mithian wondered if the middle-aged lady had ever intended to make the journey to Caerleon, or if she'd just spoken to persuade Rodor to Mithian's plan.

She thought rather irritably, that any person who professed to enjoy adventures had either never had one, or was clearly mad. She was cold, and damp from the gray drizzle that descended from a darkening sky. Sore from the saddle, and the pace Merlin was setting. _Pushing_ , whenever Sir Gwaine didn't rein him in. She understood his sense of urgency, but just now she was also feeling a little sorry for herself at her suitor's lack of attention.

To be fair, he'd been paying his friend little attention, either – staring or scowling when the knight suggested a walk to rest the horses, or a rest to recuperate their own strength. She was a little glad Sir Gwaine didn't specify _for the princess_ , though she was sure it was implied. She didn't want Merlin's impatience focused on her.

Just now, Gwaine had drawn his mount even with Merlin's in the lead – hopefully to suggest stopping for the night. The wind was picking up and the light - she thought – was failing. Hard to tell, in this weather, if it was really getting dark – until it _was_ dark.

She could tell her mare was lagging, too – the horse stood still, with her head slightly lowered, and Mithian's fingers were numb around the reins as she watched the two men ahead of her. They appeared to be arguing, which puzzled her. Sir Gwaine was the one who'd spent the most time with Merlin; they were close friends, and she hadn't yet seen Merlin argue with anyone.

Finally Merlin reined his mount off the track to one side – abruptly, and without looking back at her. For a moment they both watched him, til he kicked himself out of the saddle in a little clear space before a clump of spruce and set about unpacking and unsaddling his horse.

Sir Gwaine wheeled his mount tiredly, and returned to Mithian; she couldn't help thinking of something Merlin had said the first day about arriving in Nemeth, about priorities and promising to be honest with her if their relationship became a burden to him. The flush of anticipation she'd felt to hear that he'd declared his intention to her father, had dulled over the course of this day.

"We're going to stop?" she said to the knight, who dismounted weariedly, trailing his reins as he came around her horse's head.

"We're going to stop. Would you like a hand getting down, Your Highness?"

She didn't. Tomorrow she might, if it was like today, but she maneuvered her right leg over the saddle, and dropped stiffly down to the ground. If it was going to be wet, she thought, there might as well be snow.

"He's still upset?" she ventured quietly, handing her reins to the knight.

Sir Gwaine grunted. "One thing about Merlin. When things go wrong, he feels guilty, like he should've stopped it somehow. I think it's the effect of having magic like he does. There were times, when we were living rogue in those ruins… but it was almost better, then."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

They were both watching Merlin, still. The saddle was off his horse and he was halfway to having a cookfire ready – stones and initial kindling, at least. Their edibles were in his pack, while her horse carried their bedding, and Sir Gwaine's was weighed down under the armor he wore and the weapons he carried.

"He's mentioned his destiny?" the knight asked.

She nodded.

"If you look at it backwards and inside out," Sir Gwaine told her, beginning to gather some fallen branches near them, without approaching the area Merlin had chosen for their campsite. "As long as he still had it to fulfill, protect Arthur til he was king and magic returned and peace made with the other kingdoms – in a certain sense, Arthur's life was in no real danger. It could be done, if it had to be done. But now, I think Merlin thinks, if destiny's already fulfilled – maybe Arthur isn't necessary anymore, and could actually…"

"Die," Mithian finished. "But, Sir Gwaine –"

"It's Lord, actually," he told her with a half-energy grin. "And, just Gwaine."

"If you'll say Mithian," she told him. "But Caerleon won't kill Arthur, it wouldn't make sense. There would be war – and now that Camelot is allied with us, and Mercia and Gawant…"

Gwaine shook his head. "No one ever said that Merlin's devotion to Arthur was rational."

Mithian sighed.

And was glad she'd been taught the details of tack, that she'd been curious enough as a child to ask questions about cooking and setting up camp in general. Merlin was so preoccupied – and it wasn't all, magic to dry the kindling and light the fire - it felt awkward for her to interrupt with menial concerns, and it was awkward for his friend to pay her the attention that Merlin probably should've.

"Let Mithian finish there," Gwaine proposed, once the horses had been dealt with, and the necessary baggage laid to hand or protected from the weather. "Why don't you weave us some shelter with these evergreens?"

Merlin looked at the long-handled wooden spoon – looked at her – and passed her the utensil, as he rose from his crouch and moved toward the trees.

"This," Gwaine declared, settling beside her and extending gloveless hands to the glowing coals under the cookpot, "never gets old."

There was no wind to bother the persistent earthward dripping of moisture, but the trees swayed and bent, reaching their branches like they were spreading skirts or embracing each other. The light seemed to glow a little brighter, reflected from each shiny needle rather than dissipating into the falling darkness as the shelter tightened into something Mithian could believe was proof against any kind of weather. She wished wistfully that she could have seen his face while he was performing the magic; he'd stood so perfectly still he was little more than a brown-cloaked shadow, from behind.

"I think this is ready," she called, pushing the spoon against a lump of potato and feeling it yield.

Gwaine produced bowls and spoons from Merlin's pack, and Merlin returned to crouch on a fallen trunk, not quite facing them, and still silent. Mithian couldn't think of a single thing to say to him that might actually help; she was back to the uncertainty of what might embarrass or offend – or even irritate – him.

"I've heard how Arthur retrieved his magical sword from the stone, before rejoining the defenders of Gawant and challenging Odin in the arena," she said to Gwaine, "but your story must be a bit different – I wouldn't mind hearing it?"

The knight, Merlin's friend, was cheerfully obliging, even considering that he had been traveling like this for several days now – and faced a solitary infiltration of an enemy castle at the end of their journey. Mithian herself could declare her identity and probably be ransomed – though there would be consequences for that – but if things went really wrong, it might mean lives. She couldn't quite comprehend that – it was so foreign to her experience the fear was too vague to be felt, though it was acknowledged.

"So we ended up sleeping through our wedding banquet, instead of…" When Gwaine trailed off, she glanced up from her nearly-empty stew bowl – thick, hearty, simple, and almost appetizing – at the moment he said, "Merlin?"

Quiet, and intense – and in the half-second before she turned to their companion, she saw the depth of this man's regard for his friend.

Merlin's bowl was cradled in his hands, spoon resting on the edge, as if forgotten. He was completely still, his head turned just enough away from them, in the direction they'd been traveling, that they couldn't see his eyes.

Gwaine shifted abruptly, setting his own bowl on the ground and leaning forward into Merlin's line of sight – then spat a startling oath. "Merlin. Merlin!"

None of his words had any effect on the motionless sorcerer.

"What is it?" Mithian said, standing – with difficulty – and moving around behind the knight.

To see that Merlin's eyes were blazing gold. His lips set and his nostrils flared, and he was like a living statue.

She dared approach him, kneeling right in front of him – he took no notice, the magic burning and burning. She took his shoulders gently; he was hard as a rock.

"Merlin?" She shook him, and tried again. "Merlin!"

"Can you break him out of that?" Gwaine said. "I don't know very much about magic at all. Should we break him out of it? What's he doing?"

Mithian shivered, moving to join Merlin on the log, snuggled close to his body though he still seemed completely unaware. "We probably shouldn't try to break his concentration, actually," she realized belatedly. "Though he – probably shouldn't be doing, whatever it is he's doing. He spoke no spell, so I don't… know. I can guess, that it has something to do with Arthur?"

Gwaine exhaled another obscenity. "Of course it does. Trying to see if he's all right – or tell him we're coming, or something. Dammit, Merlin – seeing him like this, it's just too close to what happened this spring."

"With his cousin, you mean?" She'd heard Ally's version of that, though Gwen hadn't added much, and Merlin's perspective was again, something completely different.

"He was just – gone. Sitting right in front of you, blinking and breathing and – empty." Gwaine sounded uneasy, and she let him gather the dishes to distract himself. "Come on, Merlin…"

Mithian gathered his hands between hers, gloveless for eating and by the fire, and they were icy. Clenched, though his fingers obeyed hers to bend or straighten. "Blankets, Gwaine?"

"Yeah, good idea." He retrieved one, and tossed it around both of them, tucking her in beside Merlin without hesitation. Then crouching back to watch his friend's face with a worry that looked a bit gaunt.

She chafed Merlin's fingers gently. "Come back," she suggested to him gently. Her throat felt tight and achy, and there was guilt in her heart for wishing his mood would change and he would treat her more normally. That felt selfish right now, when –

He blinked, and tears rolled down his face. Gold swirled away to blue, and seemed to drain vitality from the rest of him. He opened his mouth to draw breath raggedly.

"Merlin?" Gwaine tried again – and this time the younger man's gaze dropped to the knight kneeling on the ground before him.

"They've got him locked in a cell," Merlin said hoarsely. "They're not feeding him properly, he's lost weight. He's cold and miserable and chained and – they're torturing him."

Mithian believed him – Gwaine too, by the look of horror on his bearded face in the firelight. She probably looked the same; it was hard to breathe around this particular mix of astonishment and outrage and grief. She had liked Arthur, when they'd visited Camelot only a few months ago. Liked him even more from Merlin's stories, in spite of his father.

"Okay," Gwaine managed. "Well – good thing we're on our way. But Merlin – you have to be careful, too, you –"

Merlin tipped slowly sideways – not uncontrolled, but as though he'd decided he was done trying to stay upright. Toward her, so she caught him and guided him down til his head rested in her lap and the rest of him was curled up, half on the log and half on the ground.

"Too much magic," she whispered, a question or a statement or both. His hair was thick and soft and damp because everything was damp today.

"I'll be all right – come morning," he whispered back, and his eyes dropped shut with finality.

Gwaine passed a hand over his face. "Idiot boy," he growled fondly. "Arthur does not deserve him, you know? Do you want me to settle him somewhere else?"

"No," Mithian said, squirming to a more comfortable position, herself.

There was a tree behind her for support, if she could curl toward Merlin and lean her head down on his uppermost shoulder. She didn't want to let go, or put any more space between them, she wanted to stay just like this, even if it was largely unintentional on Merlin's part. The warmth from his head was spreading along her thigh, his face separated from the skin of her leg by the relatively thin layer of the dark trousers she wore, and it was simultaneously thrilling and soothing.

"Try to get some sleep, then," Gwaine advised. "If I know Merlin, the camp will be well-protected even if no one is awake to keep watch."

Morning would either come too soon, or the night would drag interminably, she knew from experience. But just now she had the man she loved in her arms. Sleeping in her lap. She didn't wish that she'd stayed home, anymore – if Merlin needed her to be strong and loyal no matter how rude his worry made him – then that's what she'd do.

Combing her fingers once more through silky-smooth hair – now she knew why Crissa loved doing that with her husband – she watched firelight flicker over his lips and nose and the bone of his cheek.

"I love you," she whispered down at him.

* * *

 **A/N: Next chapter, Merlin pov!**

Amanda: I usually like to respond to reviews in a private message, but I guess this'll have to do. Thanks so much for your review – I'm glad you've enjoyed the trilogy to this point! I'd like to take a little minute though to answer a couple of your objections…

Borden enchanting Merlin. It's not clear whether Borden had magic himself, or was facing execution by Uther's order for some other offense – the triskelion seems to merge its own pieces without magic from him. In my fic, the enchanted arrow that struck Merlin was _not_ Borden's magic, but Ally's work, given Borden by Lord Bernard – sorry if that wasn't clear. I also think Merlin is as susceptible as the next guy without magic, at being taken by surprise (reference Morgana's use of the fomorroh, in-series).

Merlin being nobility. That's kind of a stretch, actually, Balinor was only an acknowledged cousin of Bernard's (not necessarily with a title, even), and his marriage to Hunith isn't _official_ , if you know what I mean. If I'm going to pair Merlin with Mithian, I wanted at least the suggestion that he's closer to her status than just, the son of two untaught peasants (because Hunith obviously can read and write – maybe Gaius taught her or maybe Balinor was actually in Ealdor that long; who knows). In any case, I wouldn't normally make him a noble even by appointment, but if I'm going to do Merthian (I'm a Freylin shipper, too, but I really resist resurrection as a plot device), I'm going to do it right.

The guys' romances. The more traditional view of the Round Table has the knights away from Camelot more often than not, on quests or in their own castles or what-not. 'Our' Camelot is tamer than that, but I like the idea of an eventual peace that doesn't require our core knights' cast to be in court 24-7. Close enough that they can be called upon, but there's not an emergency every other day, anymore. And Gwaine is the one of them who might possibly have the training to run another kingdom (having actually descended from nobility). Still, both Godwyn and Bernard are hale enough that neither Gwaine nor Lancelot is really going to be absent from Camelot more than they're around. And you're right about Lancelot – he does pine. But in this fic, with Arthur speaking up more definitely to Guinevere (never even considering Elena, and Gwen never accused of enchanting him), she has a chance to focus more definitely on him before Lancelot is back in the picture. Lancelot & Elaine is legend, so I wanted to do a version of that where he does actually fall in love with another lady and find his own happiness, that doesn't threaten Arthur&Gwen. For Percival, obviously I wouldn't encourage a 13-year-old to get engaged in the here and now – but for the time and the class, it wasn't uncommon for babies to be engaged to each other by their parents. This isn't that bad, and she has the option of waiting as long as necessary (into her twenties, even, if she wanted), or to say never mind at some point. And you know Percival is not going to push before she's legal. *wink*

As far as the rest of the story – you can see what news Gwaine has brought, obviously. Merlin does deserve peace and happiness – after a little angst and action.


	18. Merlin

**Chapter 18: Merlin**

All day and all the sleepless night before, Merlin had been tearing apart inside – slowly, helplessly, painfully – and cursing himself for the fool Arthur once thought him.

Because it was his fault. He should have known better. Didn't terrible things happen when he left his king?

If only he'd stayed in Camelot, this wouldn't have happened. Arthur wouldn't have gone to fight raiders without Merlin, he wouldn't have been captured – without Merlin – and he wouldn't have remained hostage. It had been selfish to go to Nemeth, and to stay. He should've just denied the proposal and let Arthur's pact with Nemeth be assured by someone else's marriage and not.

And not…

A whirl of air stirred by a break in the trees and a bare miserable promontory overlooking more trees with dripping, dying leaves, brought him a snatch of voices. _Her_ voice. Cultured and lively, clever and amused – raised in frustration, softly cooing over her baby nephew.

He knew what he felt for her. But he refused even to think the word. He should have _known_ , dammit.

Freya had been a beautiful surprise. A rose in the muck of a well-traveled road. Someone who needed him desperately and completely and knew it, whose eyes shone with gratitude, and awe to see his magic, whose height of happiness was his company. To talk of small simple things like home, to lean on each other and rest her head on his shoulder. Finally to kiss, sweetly.

Mithian was so different. A rose in a garden of roses, but she'd asked for _him_. Confident and intelligent and possessed of authority in her own right, and somehow she'd seen something worthwhile in him, too. She'd marveled at his magic – but then suggested and challenged and even provided precious resources. They'd talked of simple things like home and love and family – but those things carried complicated associations for both of them, too. When he'd arrived a month ago, he would have said she didn't need him at all – but if he wasn't flattering himself, he might guess that her need for him now was subtle and patient. Emotional… while she was now, braving weather and danger to aid him in his need.

And their kiss. More than one, actually.

He knew Mithian better – Freya had kept her secrets, after all, though she'd tried to hint – he'd known her longer. Their marriage could be a sure thing, in comparison to the wild wisps he'd conjured with Freya. Her kiss had been sad and hopeless, though he hadn't understood it at the time. Mithian's kiss was… rich with promise, uplifting, freely offered passion that made him tremble to remember. Dangerous temptation.

 _I'm not a princess, I'm a woman, and I want to be yours._

Damn him twice. He'd believed it possible, he'd allowed himself to accept and desire – even to start seeing how Mithian as a wife for him in Camelot, would be inexpressibly beneficial. A gift for all of them – Gwen and Ally, Arthur and the council, even Gaius and Geoffrey – the opposite of a burden on his time and conscience.

But obviously, he wasn't supposed to find love and personal happiness. Destiny seemed offended once again, with his allowance of distraction.

Fine, then. He'd forget about everything else – the feelings of all three of them huddled around the cookfire in the dismal gray twilight, chewing tasteless stew as just another duty. And focus on Arthur.

There must be some way. Gwaine and Mithian both seemed content that Arthur's life was in no danger. Merlin couldn't be so sure – that only held if Caerleon was an intelligent, logical king who cared about the things he should care about. And Merlin knew by now, he had no sixth sense alerting him to Arthur's danger – hadn't he been fooling around, laughing and lounging and _courting_ , while Arthur had been enduring… He wouldn't allow himself to imagine.

His heart clenched in his chest like a fist. _I'm sorry_ … if only there was a way for him to say it to his friend, his king. If only he could tell him, _Hold on, we're on the way_. If he could…

Memory sparked. Iseldir and a double handful of druids, appearing to warn Merlin of the thief and the tomb, there but not there, and he'd almost grasped the magic they'd used, before they'd been interrupted by Sir Arrok. He'd recently read a variation on scrying spells – one that showed the path between the caster and his objective, rather than just the objective.

Well, he didn't anticipate a restful night, anyway. And he wasn't interested in putting more stew into a stomach pinched with guilt. And happily-married Gwaine was a perfect companion for… someone who shouldn't be here. Someone Merlin shouldn't think about.

Merlin focused his will, and _looked_.

Through the trees – through more trees – speeding away on either side like his spirit rode the wind. Over hills, shooting off cliffs and gliding down, faster and faster – a river – more trees – lots of jagged rocky outcroppings – scattered attempts at farming or livestock herding –

A castle.

A fleeting impression of great height and gray stone – into the castle. Evidently this form of sight couldn't pass through walls or doors, and Merlin was too dizzy from flying through halls and around corners and down stairs to remember anything of the route. Dark, damp stone – warriors' coarse laughter – servants flitting past –

Down. Torchlight flickered over moisture and filth, rusted crusted bars of iron, great moldering wood-plank doors. Rough dirty guards with furtive sneers and shifty eyes seated on a pair of stools, throwing dice from a cup onto the tilted bottom of an overturned barrel.

Down to the end of the chamber, where even the light was murky – and neither Merlin's sense of touch nor smell was engaged for this magic – and though the cell seemed empty, there was his focus.

Something on the ground in the far corner. Someone.

Motionless. Naked save for trousers that were nearly indistinguishable from stone floor and skin and hair – all filthy gray.

Merlin drifted through the bars to enter the cell incorporeal. His pulse pounded through his whole body, making his fingers tremble as he approached the man on the floor.

Ribs showing. Barely breathing. Padded chains at wrists and ankles, shackled to the wall. Wisps of straw scattered on the floor and piled in the corner, puddles caught uneven in the stone floor. Nothing else. Nothing else.

Sick with fear, Merlin ventured, "Arthur?"

No response.

Behind him, voices closed with them abruptly. The key clanged in the lock, confusing his nerves like a tossed handful of coins – mixed, lost, ricocheting off each other.

He turned to see the two guards shuffling into the cell. Between them they carried a wooden wash-tub full of water and sloshing over the rim between their two rope handles. Behind them another shadowy figure loitered.

"Wake up, Majesty," he heard, and never the title in such a sneer. "Time to discuss our treaty, again."

The man on the floor shifted, rolling to his back, turning his face further. Eyes dull – ignoring the guards – focused on the speaker outside the cell.

He whispered, he tried to swallow, he rasped, "No."

It was Arthur. It was _Arthur_.

Merlin voiced his immediate rage – and guilt – crouching and loosing his magic forward like a great gust of wind to nail all three men to the first vertical surface their bodies collided with.

Nothing happened.

Because he wasn't actually there, and it seemed none of them could see him. Maybe because none of them had magic.

The guards worked together, rudely and dispassionately lifting Arthur's body and positioning him on his knees. His arms swung behind him, still connected to the wall by the chains – Merlin stared at the spreading contusions on his chest and belly, ranging from sour yellow-brown to deep blue-purple.

"The parchment is ready. It lacks only your signature. Such a simple, easy thing – you've been writing your own name since childhood, haven't you?" the third man drawled, from outside the cell. He looked to have taken a seat – maybe on one of the low stools the guards used. Making himself marginally comfortable. Settling in to spend not a little time. "The terms are not untenable. Majesty."

The guards snickered, as their king intended them to.

Arthur's body struggled to breathe, his chin to remain level. His defiance faltered, and Merlin's spirit knelt at his side in a rush, flinging his arms around his king.

"We are coming!" he promised vehemently. "We are coming – only hold on a little while longer! I'm here, Arthur, you can–"

The body sagged against him – not really, since he was not really there – sharp bones and loose skin and trembling. He muttered, "No."

"Are you very sure you wouldn't like to read the treaty before you decline again? Perhaps we can negotiate some of the language?" Persuasive. Reasonable. Sarcastic.

Arthur sobbed, and it ripped Merlin's tearing heart still further. "No," he repeated, in a mumble, "No, no, no…"

The guards had been waiting for a signal. They moved suddenly to either side of Merlin's king, wrenching him through Merlin's spectral grasp, bending him over the tub, pushing his face into the water, submerging his head.

Holding him down.

"No! no!" Merlin repeated his king's word frantically, clawing at Arthur's shoulders, at the guards' hands – but he was helpless. No magic, no body.

Gray-blonde hair floated on the water's roiling surface, still dry around the guards' dirty fingers. Arthur's body bucked – once, twice – they didn't let up and Merlin panicked also as his king began to kick at the floor, bare feet and chains and his arms stretched shaking behind him.

"He has the Pendragon stubbornness, at least," the third man observed, as if bored. "As always, men, not a word to Her Majesty about tonight… okay, let him up."

Merlin gasped as Arthur did – choking, wet hair stringy and clinging to his face as he collapsed back, careless of every part of him but nose and mouth and lungs. He reached, but –

Instead of moving forward, he was pulled back, out of the cell, down the length of the chamber – Arthur a suffering figure grown far-away tiny in a second, then gone.

The enemy castle grown far-away tiny in a second, then gone.

Merlin was back in the trees on a log by the fire, shuddering though he sensed neither cold nor heat, only oppressive darkness. His spirit felt unfastened inside his body, still.

There was alarm on Gwaine's face as he knelt before him, close enough to touch. And Merlin's hands were in Mithian's, warm and gentle, her body unbearably soft beside his. Heaven help him, he wanted nothing more than to let her supple strength envelop his heartache, and seek oblivion.

He blurted, "They've got him locked in a cell. They're not feeding him properly, he's lost weight. He's cold and miserable and chained and – they're torturing him."

Gwaine said something he couldn't hear past the thunder of his blood and the rush of air in his ears. _Be careful_ , he saw on his friend's lips and in his eyes.

And Mithian's murmur, _Too much magic_ , as the rest of him surrendered to the complete exhaustion of body and magic.

Well, it was one way of getting a full night's uninterrupted sleep. He managed, "I'll be all right, come morning."

And then he was sinking into velvet warmth and safety – the scent of horse and leather and stew and _her_ – and he didn't deserve it, when his king had cold hard stone and enemies and torture.

But he didn't have the strength to push away. Damn him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke early, though it was mere moments before he heard Gwaine begin to stir – recognizing his friend by sound from long experience and familiarity. The vague reassurance he got from that sense – no imminent danger at their campsite, just normal routine – lulled him in half-slumber a few more moments.

His eyes stung, even closed. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and sore; he felt ill-rested and despondent, but even as he realized this, he came awake to the softness of his pillow and the warm weight and motion of another body – a female body – Mithian.

He struggled upright, not quite able to ignore her sigh, and the small sounds and movements she made in waking.

"Morning, you two," Gwaine yawned, stirring up last night's coals.

Merlin tried to disentangle himself from the blankets they'd evidently shared – not side by side, but nestled awkwardly around each other's knees. Over his shoulder, away from Gwaine, he said to her in a low voice, "I'm sorry."

She was trying to comb her hair with her fingers. Her black woolen cloak was askew at her neck, like she'd forgotten to remove it, and just used it for a pillow or cover or both, in her sleep. He was glad to see evidence that she'd truly rested, and ashamed of himself.

"For what?" she said, her voice pleasantly throaty in the early hour. "For the magic last night? You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Merlin heard Gwaine turn away from them, rummaging for some sort of breakfast. Eaten cold and swift before they packed up and took to the saddle again.

"No, I meant, I'm sorry for… all this." He did her the courtesy of meeting her eyes, though without turning his head. "My behavior since…" He paused, thinking back – since yesterday – since he'd come to Nemeth to court – before that, when he hadn't just said _no_.

"Merlin," she said, maybe too quickly. "I understand a bit of what you're thinking and feeling. And I think, we should wait to talk about – anything important, til Arthur is free and we're all safe."

He didn't want to keep deceiving her about what their future would be. But maybe she was right and now was not the time to think of themselves. "If you're sure you won't turn your horse and ride back home today," he said. "We haven't passed into territory where it would be dangerous for a woman to travel alone, yet."

"No," she said, settling her cloak by feel and raising her chin in challenge with a significance that he shied from. "I'll go on, with you."

The day was not much different than the one before, save that the clouds were broken and gathered together in great gray tufts that poured rain suddenly and rumbled at the horizon – then broke to weak winter sunlight that didn't warm or dry them.

Merlin did that with magic, as best he could – once before packing the old site, once after unpacking at the new camp that night, and once at midday when they fished flatbread and dried fruit and meat out of their saddlebags. The efforts tired him more than usual, and he sobered to the effects of last night's magic. Aside from how the images of his friend in pain and fear and loneliness twisted his heart and stomach, he was heading into a situation where he needed all possible energy and magic at his disposal. No wonder Iseldir had combined his strength and ability with the others, to speak to Merlin. He was probably lucky their enemies at Caerleon's castle couldn't see him, after all, and be warned they were coming.

The third day they came to sight of their destination only a couple hours after they'd eaten midday provisions.

Bare hills with stunted gray bushes, rattling naked twigs. Perhaps welcoming or even pretty in spring – green, with wildflowers – but just now it was all mud and stone.

And stone, and more stone. The castle complex was immense, rising high above the hill it was set upon – probably sinking its roots low underground, also. It was a fortress, all-encompassing. Not like Camelot's citadel – which still left the lower town vulnerable in an attack – or like Nemeth's palace, with its comfortably sprawling town surrounding it for half a league in approachable confidence.

"Last chance for anyone to change their mind," Gwaine offered with false cheer, shifting in his saddle.

It was two days back to Nemeth; Merlin knew Mithian wouldn't go alone. If she was the sort of girl to change her mind, she'd have already done it.

And he wanted to dig his heels into the flanks of his mount and _arrive_.

"Well, then, maybe we should change our clothes," Gwaine concluded.

Thanks to Gwen's support of Arthur's standards, Merlin's clothing, from servant to outlaw – _threadbare_ , he'd said; _rags_ , Arthur had countered – had been replaced with better-quality garments. Mostly subtle; he hadn't wanted to stand out, anywhere he went, or worry constantly about ruining really fine things. Arthur dressed comparatively plainly also, when he wasn't meeting the council or entertaining guests – or traveling to be the visitor, himself.

The servants in Rodor's palace had packed for him spare clothing that included trousers with a long ragged edge rather than a cuff, that effectively hid his new boots, and a rope belt. A bleached shirt, under an also-unhemmed tunic that had no laces at the open throat, and a once-black jacket worn gray at the elbows, that was missing one of its wooden toggles. If he hadn't been happy just to be dressed again after changing in the chilly air, he might have missed the warmth of better-woven wool a little more.

His fingers trembled, beginning to go numb, as he fastened the last toggle of his jacket – and he wondered how Mithian was faring. Because female clothing was so much more complicated, and Mithian had no other female to help her, since Alice had decided to go on to Camelot instead of trying to keep up with their pace.

Gwaine shouldered into carefully-packed chainmail and buckled the swordbelt that had ridden his saddle instead of his hip thus far, before wrapping his dark-blue cloak back into place. He watched Merlin as they changed, and Merlin did not know why – he could guess at too many reasons to settle on only one, and appreciated that his normally talkative friend did not speak.

And Mithian appeared through the last few trees, before they'd finished arranging the baggage around the saddle of Merlin's mount – which was as appropriate for his role as a servant, as was their change of clothing.

The princess had worn dark trousers and high boots to ride in, a thick white shirt with a high collar under her dark warm-wool cloak that hung to her knees when she was dismounted. Now she wore a full-skirted dress in a rich earth-red satin, form-fitting but unadorned. Her hair was unbraided, but bound with a criss-crossed leather string, over one shoulder. She was fastening her cloak at the base of her throat as she came, eyes on her fingers. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, and Merlin could see that she wore the bracelet he'd given her over the long cuff of the dress-sleeve.

"You two are going to have beautiful children," Gwaine remarked, more wistful than teasing.

Regret stabbed through Merlin's chest, leaving him breathless. Part of him wanted to keep her – everything she represented – so badly; it ripped a little more from the rest of him that was devoted to Arthur.

He turned away from Gwaine, and avoided Mithian's eyes in taking her bag from her to fasten at his saddle – and delayed long enough that Gwaine stood attendant as Mithian mounted. She didn't need him, but her smile of thanks was his. Another regret Merlin tried not to feel.

And then Gwaine handed her something tiny and gold. "As my wife, you'd have this," he said. "Elena gave it back to me so that I could prove my identity in Caerleon."

Mithian's cheeks were pink as she glanced over at Merlin, tucking it into her glove; he told himself it was the cold air, and didn't meet her look. "She can have it back once we're safely returned to Camelot," she told Gwaine with a smile.

Merlin swung into place on his loaded saddle and kept his eyes on his reins til they were moving again.

The fortress was well-protected. Watchmen in the towers, guards at the massive pair of doors that met in a pointed arch at the top. Their approach led along one curved wall of the stronghold; Merlin examined the structure as they rode, and noted eight manned arrow-slits. Gwaine didn't glance up, but he knew his friend was aware, also.

He wondered how much Gwaine remembered of this place. He also couldn't help an eerie awareness that Arthur was _here_ , somewhere, hurting and alone.

"And who might you be, sir," one of the half-dozen men before the door demanded.

Not impolitely, though their look had more in common with the brigands Arthur's patrols sometimes encountered than the knights of Camelot themselves. Merlin thought it unsurprising that they would be assumed bandits, in Stonedown and the far side of the border. Their weapons were mismatched, their armor mostly worn leather rather than metal, their indigo colors tattered and piecemeal, rather than proud and whole tunics or cloaks.

"My name is Gwaine. Son and heir of Sir Geart of Caerleon, deceased for almost twenty years. This is my wife and my servant. I'd like an audience with King Caerleon."

The spokesman – someone with authority, though there were no visual cues to prove it – looked them over narrowly before deciding. "You may enter the outer courtyard and wait."

He pounded on the doors, which opened to the outside. Four of the guards accompanied them as the corners of a square of which they were the center, leaving two – probably the original and requisite two, when there weren't approaching strangers sighted – outside the doors. Merlin glanced over his shoulder as others on the inside cast a great beam into massive iron brackets to bar the stronghold's main entrance. There would be at least one other elsewhere – maybe a sally-port close by – but it amused him to think of using Ally's spell at this point as they made good their escape with their king.

Athwinan thas heard, _you bastards_.

The outer courtyard was little more than a seven-pace wide yard between the outer and an inner wall. Beyond the pair of doors – offset from each other – there were booths and huts of both wood and stone, people that included women and children going about the daily business of living.

Stone and mud and no children running in play and no village women laughing. Merlin wondered about flocks and fields and gardens.

"Stop gawking, boy, and get off the horse that's worth more than two of you," Gwaine said to him. "Lazy thing."

He was dismounted already, catching Mithian as she slid down from her saddle rather than swinging her leg over the horse's rump herself. She twisted in Gwaine's hands to send Merlin a shocked, worried look at his friend's casual abuse; Merlin hoped it would be the first, last, and only of its kind, before she realized how they must play their parts.

"Yes lord sorry lord," he said, scrambling down, himself, and ducking his mare's head to take the leads of Gwaine's mount and Mithian's.

Merlin kept his head down as the inner set of doors groaned open – and wondered if there was magic that would let him see through earth and stone to locate Arthur. If by chance he were directly beneath them right now.

The voice that called a brusque, perfunctory greeting, however, yanked his eyes up from the ground and straight to a man who wore a breastplate of iron rings sewn into leather over a thick chest. Not a tall man, or imposing in any way, his shaggy hair held gray but his beard was nearly white, and there was no visible mark of rank or title, though the chain of some ornament descended beneath his armor at his throat.

It was the voice he had heard two nights ago, when he'd spelled his spirit to Arthur – the man who had remained in the corridor outside the cell to direct and observe the torture of the king of Camelot.

Of Merlin's friend.

He inhaled suddenly and deeply, trying to remember Gwaine's words about brute force and hostages and what would happen if he attacked King Caerleon with magic in his own stronghold. Maybe he could kill every knight and guard here without any of them – or Arthur – getting hurt. And maybe he shouldn't.

Gwaine and Mithian turned also – toward each other, between Merlin and Caerleon – and Mithian's inside palm, down at her side, opened as her fingers spread. A clear sign that only he could see – _Stop. Calm. Think_.

He took another breath. His focus was saving Arthur. Not punishing Caerleon.

"So," the king drawled in a raspy voice, "you claim to be the son of one of my knights, who died nearly twenty years ago in battle."

"I do," Gwaine said cheerfully.

And it occurred to Merlin, if his friend could face this man who had also wronged him and his family and his father's memory with such control, so could Merlin. It occurred to him, this was Gwaine's Uther. And Merlin had managed to stand mostly unnoticed in Uther's presence nearly daily, for three years.

"I do have proof," Gwaine added, "more than just my word. Show him the ring, darling."

Mithian took off her gloves and slipped Gwaine's ring off her thumb – handing it to Gwaine rather than Caerleon, a move that Merlin instantly approved of. Then Gwaine handed his father's ring to his father's king.

"I would be surprised if you recognized his sword, but I have that as well." Gwaine reached for the hilt – and three of the unkempt guards loitering around them had weapons in their hands, ready to strike.

Merlin felt a tremor of tension ripple through him.

"Put your weapons away," a female voice commanded, and a woman strode through the doors to join them with an imperiousness that reminded Merlin more of Uther than Morgana. Her hair was red-gold with a few strands of gray, loose upon the wolf-pelt she wore over her shoulders, bound with a single gold band around her head as a sign of her status. Her face was lined, her mouth pinched, and the dress she wore beneath the fur was blood-purple. "Caerleon, he looks exactly like Geart did when we knew him – give him the ring back."

Caerleon grunted, dropping the ring unceremoniously into Gwaine's hand.

"Thank you, Your Majesty – and good afternoon," Gwaine said, with a courteous half-bow. "Allow me to present my wife – Darling, this is Queen Annis."

"Your Highness," Mithian murmured, spreading her skirt in a curtsy.

Annis was looking past them, at Merlin. Without expression, but the moment he realized her gaze, he dropped his own eyes.

"So why're you here now?" Caerleon demanded. "If you are Geart's boy, you'll no doubt remember what you screamed in your childish voice as my guards chased you out of here."

"It's become a little vague in memory," Gwaine said easily. "Time passes. Boys grow up and see the world differently. Men marry – and see the world a _lot_ differently." He grabbed Mithian's hand and tucked it into his elbow; Merlin saw his grin from the side as he looked at her. "A run of good luck as a sell-sword and a good match later, I started thinking about settling down somewhere permanently and swearing loyalty. And so here I am to offer myself for your service, if you'll have me."

Caerleon glanced over his shoulder at his wife. "I don't want him," he said bluntly. "Geart was a self-righteous pain in my ass."

Merlin tensed. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Caerleon tried to turn them out of the stronghold. Or if Gwaine threw caution to the wind, himself.

Then again, a statement like that from a man like this was probably a compliment to Gwaine's father.

"Geart was an excellent fighter," Annis said neutrally. "Perhaps it would be wise to welcome them for the night – and you can test his skill tomorrow. You might change your mind."

Merlin wondered how Caerleon's other knights had reacted to his abandonment of Sir Geart's widow and family. Then again, if he could judge by the look of them, maybe they didn't care. And if Gwaine's father had been like one of these motley, dour men – perhaps his mother was someone worth meeting.

The same might be said about Merlin himself, maybe. And Arthur.

"Fine," Caerleon decided. "A room for the night and we'll see about tomorrow." He turned for the inner doors; they followed, and Merlin with the horses.

"You'll dine with us, of course," Annis added smoothly. "Both of you?"

"Yes, thank you," Gwaine said. "I hope baths in our chambers won't be a problem?"

Caerleon stalked on ahead, though not so quickly he left them behind. Annis walked half-turned to Gwaine and Mithian, accompanying and guiding them past the inner wall. It was all stony ground here – not neatly cobbled, but mostly bedrock under a thick layer of chips and flakes, seamed with thin earth growing tenacious wiry grasses and weeds – now spindly and brown with the onset of the cold season. The castle itself rose up ahead of them, past an unevenly shaped courtyard, and to either side other structures were built into the circle of the inner wall. Stables were easy to identify, and the forge and bakehouse.

"We're not pampered by servants here," Annis informed them. "If your wife needs a girl, I can spare one from the kitchens occasionally."

"That won't be necessary, Your Majesty," Mithian said. "I'm not really used to… I mean, if our servant is allowed to fetch and carry for us?" Her tone was an admirable mix of girlish confusion and pride; Merlin had to pretend to stumble to hide his reaction.

"Of course," Annis said. "He has the run of the keep. Within reason, of course – and mercenary work must pay exceptionally well, elsewhere, if you're able to afford a man, Gwaine."

"He really doesn't cost me much, Majesty," Gwaine said confidingly. "I don't fatten him, you see."

Annis made a thoughtful noise, glancing back to scrutinize Merlin briefly, head to toe. "Where did you hire him from?"

"Border town," Gwaine answered. "Just outside Camelot, up north. Contested territory – he was desperate to get out. I feed him and he follows me like a puppy."

"Outside Camelot?" Annis said, and something in her tone pricked Merlin's ears and pulled them forward. The queen was leading them to the half-dozen wide stairs that lay before and below the castle's main doors; he followed them rather than veering with the horses toward the stable – an obvious structure with doors open to allow for two lads to shovel manure and fork hay. "Have you spent much time in Camelot, these last fifteen years?"

"Not much," Gwaine answered easily. Merlin reflected that it was comparatively true. "I ran into old Uther once – sneaked my way into a tournament – and won it – and got banished for my efforts. They're awfully narrow-minded in Camelot."

"And what of Arthur?" Annis asked. Caerleon stopped on the third stair, turning just enough to look at his guests without lifting his head. "Did your path ever cross with his?"

Gwaine shrugged. "He was in the tournament, too, but it was full armor. I don't know – he's just like his father, isn't he? Stubborn and arrogant?"

"Stubborn," Caerleon grunted.

Merlin went numb with fury, remembering how Arthur – half-naked and half-starved – had begged and struggled. Not so arrogant, anymore? It made him cold to think that this man could have changed Arthur – his king, his friend, his destiny – in any lasting way.

"We don't get much news, here," Annis went on, gathering her skirts to climb. "My husband believes that spies are rats–" Caerleon grunted – "and we're too far from the routes for regular traders…" She stopped as Gwaine and Mithian began to ascend behind her. "Ah – the stables are that way?"

Merlin dropped his eyes away from the others' gaze. Gwaine said casually, "Get moving then, lazy sod. Stop daydreaming. We need our bags carried up when you're done with the horses, then a bath drawn. And if you're late…" He smacked one palm with the back of his other hand threateningly.

"Yes, m'lord," Merlin mumbled, pulling the leads of their three mounts, trying to hurry them. Tired after the long hard journey, they weren't keen to move quickly.

Honestly, he couldn't blame them.


	19. Merlin (2)

**Chapter 19: Merlin** (2)

In the stable Merlin was given directions for the care of their three mounts – empty stalls and supplies – and he moved as quickly as possible, using no magic. He didn't want even a hint of that ability getting out. But as his hands were busy, so was his mind.

He believed that Caerleon and Annis had not heard of Gwaine's knighthood, or marriage in Gawant, so there would be nothing for Gwaine to deny, only fabricate. He also thought that the king and queen believed Gwaine to be no friend of Camelot or Arthur – not that they would admit to him the fact of their hostage, but it would probably be enough that they wouldn't feel the need to watch every move the three of them made.

Gwaine would be able to guess more accurately, but from what Merlin had seen of the fortress so far, it was well-manned but not well-organized. That made their job more difficult, if the warriors here were not required to conform to routines. The lads were curious, but not lazy; Merlin answered shortly and was left alone again, not wanting anyone with sharp eyes to guess how hard or long they'd ridden to get here. And like hiding his magic, he felt that being too friendly would be suspicious, and he simply wasn't in the mood. He wanted to blaze a path directly to Arthur without stopping, and then blast his way out again with Gwaine and Mithian. Not discuss worn horseshoes or saddlesores.

"Sst," someone said to get his attention.

Merlin looked up from emptying the last scoop of grain into the hopper at the front of the stall Mithian's mare was sharing with his. Gwaine, checking both directions down the stable-aisle, flicked his fingers for Merlin to join him. He ducked through the plank-rails of the stall-front rather than take the time to use the gate.

"You know I'm sorry for all that–" Gwaine began, referring to the casual verbal abuse he'd tossed in Merlin's direction in front of the king and queen.

"Don't be sorry," Merlin said immediately. "If it's working, keep doing it."

Gwaine snorted a little sourly. "Glad to hear you say it. Mithian had an idea."

Their baggage was waiting in the aisle outside the stalls; Merlin hoisted it about his person in a practiced way – over one shoulder, over the other, around his neck, under each arm. Now he weighed twice as much, but he'd paid attention to balancing the bundles, and didn't so much as stagger as he followed Gwaine from the stable to the stony courtyard, almost warm enough from his work to welcome the frost-edged breeze.

"What's her idea?"

"She was a little worried about how you might take it," Gwaine tossed over his shoulder. "But I said, anything that'll get Merlin closer to Arthur, he'll actually be pleased about."

" _Gwaine_ ," Merlin said, impatient.

And his friend rounded on him, seizing jacket-tunic-shirt at his shoulder and shaking him so furiously he dropped two of their bags – and a third when Gwaine released him in an unexpected shove that had him tripping over the lost baggage, down to one knee.

"You lazy, good-for-nothing son of a field-hand!" Gwaine shouted down to him. "How dare you try to steal from me – I, who put the very food in your mouth!"

Merlin gaped up at him, momentarily at a loss for understanding.

"Here, now, what's going on?" One of the warriors, a man with thinning blond-brown hair, whose skin looked pulled down tight from his face to hang in folds at his neck.

"I've caught my servant trying to dip his hand in my purse," Gwaine said wrathfully. "Your king has prison cells in this fortress, doesn't he? Maybe a night without food or water, sleeping on hard stone, will teach him to be thankful for what he's got!"

Merlin had to duck his head to hide his expression. He wasn't in the mood in the situation to consider anything funny, but he didn't want appreciation or satisfaction for Gwaine's plan to show. Once inside the cell area, he could find Arthur, and then it was just a question of getting them all _out_ again.

"Well…" The warrior hesitated, then lifted his voice to holler. "Yer Majesty! Situation here!"

The hairs rose on Merlin's neck and he gripped the straps and material of their bags tightly, remaining tense on his knees as another pair of muddy boots carried King Caerleon to them.

"What's the problem now?" the king snarled.

"Thieving servant, m'lord," his warrior answered. "Wonders if he can throw 'im in a cell overnight."

Merlin risked a glance. Gwaine stood with hands on his hips, and maybe it was easier to look displeased than to smile in the face of his king's abductor and torturer. Caerleon stared back a moment, then turned and stalked toward the stable they'd just left.

Gwaine glanced at the greasy-haired warrior as if for explanation. The man only watched his sovereign; Merlin lifted his eyebrows to his friend's second glance to convey his own ignorance, a moment before King Caerleon reappeared - carrying a coiled horsewhip. He dropped several lengths of it deliberately as he strode to rejoin them, reaching to hand it to Gwaine.

"Flog him and be done with it," Caerleon suggested without emotion.

Gwaine's jaw was set in a way Merlin didn't like. It was fine with him, if Gwaine needed to keep up appearances; he wouldn't hold it against the knight, or mind split bruising much – but he couldn't think how to let Gwaine know that without ruining the point of accepting a whipping. It was a turnabout from Gwaine cautioning Merlin to slow down and think clearly, but the two of them had been comrades in danger, before.

So Merlin cowered over the baggage, inching away and calling out, "Please don't, master! Not again! It was a misunderstanding – I wouldn't steal from you nor m'lady, I wouldn't! Please believe me! Please forgive me! Don't hit me with the whip!"

Gwaine raised it threateningly, and Merlin whimpered into the protective circle of his arms. Swearing, Gwaine recoiled the whip, squeezing it in his hands. "Damn me, but I can't bring myself to. He's just too pathetic. You've learned your lesson though, right?"

"Yes, master – sorry, master." Merlin scrambled to retrieve all their packed belongings.

Caerleon signaled his warrior to reclaim the unused whip from Gwaine, stating, "We've no place for soft-hearts, here."

Gwaine grunted, managing to make it sound like agreement. "He's not my enemy, though."

Caerleon's eyes were small and dark, and his hair hung down over his brows. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking – Gwaine pre-emptively reached down to haul Merlin to his feet.

"My lady's waiting," he explained to all three of them. And to Merlin, "Don't fall on or drop any of those again. If anything's broken I'll come back for that whip, hear?"

Merlin mumbled and followed Gwaine, up the stairs and into the fortress; he could feel Caerleon's eyes on them, but the enemy king said nothing.

"Dammit… Well, it was worth a try. Think we allayed suspicions, or raised them?" Gwaine asked under his breath. Two at a time he took a nearby stair as it curved up around the entrance area, which was open to several stories though the lighting was poor. Open arrow-slits rather than glass-paned windows kept the air chilly and filled with a faint whistle when the wind blew.

"I honestly wouldn't mind you knocking me about," Merlin answered, as quietly since the castle wasn't deserted. They reached a corridor and – breathless and weary – he struggled to keep up with his unburdened friend. "Arthur has done, in the past. It doesn't really mean anything."

Gwaine clenched his fists. "I prefer a clean fight, to this," he admitted. "I can't think whether pretending to treat you ill will convince them of our story – or make them doubt."

He leaned into a door, rapping twice with his knuckles. Inside, a bolt rasped, and Mithian swung it wide open for both of them.

"It didn't work?" she said in immediate dismay. "Or you decided you didn't like the idea?"

"It was brilliant, really," Merlin told her, beginning to unlayer himself of the straps and strings of their baggage. "It was Caerleon who wouldn't go along with it."

She came to help him untangle and free himself, claiming two of the bags to set aside on a small round table. "What do we do now?"

"Take a bath," Gwaine suggested, flicking a finger against a large metal tub that stood empty on the hearth-rug, warming by the blazing fire. "Get ready for dinner with the royals."

Mithian looked at Merlin uncertainly. He said, "I can learn my way around a bit, carrying and heating water. I can meet and talk to some of the servants, maybe get a hint of direction to the cells, or information about guard rotation, that sort of thing."

She didn't look happy, but she nodded. "We'll just wait here, then?"

"There's food," Gwaine observed, wandering away from the tub and fireplace, along the chamber's outer wall.

A bowl of green apples sat on a side table; he tossed one to Merlin, who caught it and immediately wanted to hand it to the princess. He was not hungry, but the fruit was small and the skin beginning to wrinkle with the passing of the season; it was not something he wanted to offer her with the implicit suggestion that she eat it.

Instead he went to the door, placing the unappetizing apple on the round table as he passed. "I'll eat later."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin didn't truly think about what he was doing – filling buckets at the well, carrying and heating and pouring into the tub in the room – until his last trip, when he kicked the door of the chamber shut behind him and leaned to set the last two buckets on the hearth, right by the fire.

And turned to see Gwaine getting up from a chair he'd tilted back against the wall, heading for the adjoining bedchamber with an inviting tip of his head.

And turned back around to see that the dressing screen had been moved – that Mithian's satin dress and some nameless white underthing or things had been thrown over it – that Mithian was moving shyly out from behind it in a robe she held closed over her heart and low at her hips.

Barefoot.

Merlin denied inadvertent thoughts so vehemently he actually shuddered.

"Thank you," she said softly, and the sound of her voice did not help. "For this. I guess I didn't think that… playing these roles, meant… you'd actually have to serve us."

"My pleasure, my lady," he said. His voice was hoarse and his face felt hot as he tried not to look at her, and the pounding of his heart had nothing to do with climbing stairs or carrying buckets-full of water.

He whirled to bolt the door, excusing himself around her to reposition the screen to block the tub from the rest of the room, and dragged the small round table – holding folded towels and packets he assumed she'd brought with her – to the hearthside.

"If you need anything else…" he said, awkward because she'd watched him do all this.

"I'll be fine," she told him. "I'll be fast."

Suddenly he felt acutely aware of how dirty he was, how ragged and unworthy – the cuffs of his jacket and trousers were soaked, as well as the outside of both trouser legs, from the knee down – and how sweet and vulnerable and trusting she was. And all the feelings in that tiny broken corner of his heart clamored for the rest of it to link back together.

He spun and hurried to the other room of the guest quarters to join Gwaine.

"Are you all right?" Gwaine asked, seated on the side of the bed to remove his boots. His sword-belt already lay next to him atop the cover.

"Funny," Merlin responded. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

"Well, for one thing, I'm missing my wife." Gwaine gave him a full, genuine grin – the first Merlin had seen since leaving his friend in Gawant. "Laugh all you want – I know no one that knows me would expect me to marry – or to be happily married, but. Elena is such a gift, Merlin. Something I never expected to happen to me, and I know I don't deserve her, but… sometimes, I think, destiny has more planned for you than you plan for yourself."

Merlin sighed, and muttered, "True."

Until he left Ealdor, he could never have imagined himself living in a palace. Until he traveled through the forest of Merendra to the Feorre Mountains, he could not even have dreamed of the responsibility and privilege of becoming a dragonlord. Until he left Camelot, he'd found it hard to imagine talking to Arthur freely about magic, and performing it daily and openly without fear of official reprisal.

"You and I are not so dissimilar," Gwaine said, too casually. "I apologized to Elena for getting her stuck with me, though she insists she's happy – and to Arthur for inadvertently leaving Camelot, though he said, he knows my loyalty won't slip. When Elyan came to tell me about all this, I thought – dammit, it's my fault, I should've been there fighting alongside Arthur, then this wouldn't have happened. What was I thinking, enjoying the company of a beautiful woman who's interested in me, instead?"

"You were thinking," Merlin said, his mouth twisting around words that tasted sour – because he and Gwaine knew each other very well, after all. He knew what Gwaine was saying, turning the comparison back on him and what he felt. "That you were doing your duty in Gawant, fighting Arthur's enemies. Making the best of an unfortunate situation. Not, thinking only of yourself and grasping some greedy and impossible happiness."

"Merlin," Gwaine said reproachfully. "When you left Gawant you'd made your mind up to journey to Nemeth not because you were pursuing romance in spite of what everyone else thought or needed. But because you'd made your mind up that giving yourself for Arthur's treaty was going to best benefit the kingdom."

That felt like a long time ago, and hard to remember his thinking processes. It seemed disloyal to recall wondering if a real relationship might be possible with the princess who'd chosen him. His hope, his relief, his surrender to emotion –

Dangerous distraction. Dangerous to Arthur, and now to Mithian herself, here in this enemy castle because of him. Because of his weakness.

Merlin cleared his throat and deliberately changed the subject. "And now you're back here, after all these years, having to make nice with the king who betrayed your father."

"I do not know how you did it," Gwaine stated, allowing the subject of women and wives to drop, "with Uther." He started tugging at his chainmail, and Merlin motioned for him to stand so he could help.

"It wasn't always easy," he said. "But I had Arthur." And now it felt like, if they lost Arthur, he'd lose those years of suffering and sacrifice and patience – that it would all be for nothing.

"A reason to persevere," Gwaine said, his voice muffled a little from the armor dragging over his head, and the position of his arms. "You weren't born proud, though, either."

Merlin grunted agreement and turned to drape the mail over the chair by the desk against the wall the bed's headboard shared. "Do Caerleon and Annis have children? Who's the heir?"

"They didn't when I left," Gwaine answered, unfastening his coat. Merlin took it off his shoulders through force of habit, and hung it over the chainmail on the chair. "Something I can find out tonight at dinner."

"Speaking of dinner," Merlin said. "How do I get to the cells?"

"I don't suppose we can just wander down there, tomorrow, on the excuse that I'm reacquainting myself with the place," Gwaine said, pulling a clean shirt out of one of their bags. "Or even showing my new bride around the castle…"

"No, I mean – give me directions," Merlin said, wondering if Gwaine had misunderstood him on purpose. "Do you remember the way – which stair, which hall? I offered to help out in the kitchen, any tasks no one else wanted, like bringing prisoners' meals, but they declined to let a stranger handle that."

"Not a bad plan," Mithian said, swaying into view at the arched entrance of the bedchamber. Back in her satin dress – still barefoot – rubbing her hair with the towel over one shoulder. "Too bad it didn't work."

"Speaking of dinner," Gwaine said, saluting her as he passed in the doorway, and yanking his shirt over his head as he strode toward the screen-hidden tub. "I imagine it'll be quite the polite interrogation, Mithian."

Merlin glanced at Mithian as he sidled past to follow Gwaine, who dropped his clean shirt onto the table holding the towels. She didn't catch his eye, but he caught her scent, fresh and clean and damp, and didn't stop til he was on the opposite side of the room from her, between the tub and the door.

"Well," she said, giving attention to her hair and turning her back as Gwaine's shirt and trousers flew over the dressing screen, followed immediately by the sound of him stepping into the tub with an audible sigh of satisfaction. "We're only distraction, aren't we? Talking of Camelot or Arthur is bound to draw attention."

"Do you want that clean hot water?" Merlin asked Gwaine, to distract himself from watching Mithian rub her hair dry with the towel.

"No, this is good. Mithian, we need to agree on a story we can both tell. Simple, but something that can't be easily disproved – and maybe just leave Camelot and Arthur out of it altogether."

"Why don't you call me Bronda?" Mithian suggested. "That's my maid's name." Gwaine made a sound of agreement, and Mithian disappeared into the bedchamber, calling across the space, "Have you ever been to the Western Isles?"

At the door, Merlin could hear her but faintly, and was satisfied that no one would be able to hear anything, listening from the other side.

Gwaine splashed a bit, washing energetically. "Almost, once. I was on a boat and we were crossing, but a storm came up and we returned to port."

"Which one?"

"Glevun," Gwaine answered.

"I've been there," Mithian said. "We'll say I'm the daughter of a penniless earl of Glevun who held a tournament with me as the prize, to keep the family estate running with the money from entrance fees."

Gwaine made a disgusted sound, dripping his way out of the tub behind the screen as Mithian re-entered the room, boots on her feet and combing her hair over the towel draped over her shoulder.

"It happens," she reminded them both mildly.

And, when Merlin told her what he had to tell her, she'd have to choose a different man from Camelot to marry – and how was that very much different than waiting to see who'd won the tournament, as Elena had been forced to do?

Maybe he could recommend Leon – Leon would be good to her. But how on earth could Merlin watch their happiness grow – or their tolerance strain – feeling how he felt? With Leon, or with any other man? Would she kiss that man the way she'd kissed Merlin? It might be worse, he thought, than losing Freya the way he had – helplessly and completely and at once, without reminders lingering every day, and doubts plaguing.

Damn him. But then, sacrifice wasn't meant to be easy.

"What shall we call you, then?" Gwaine said, emerging from behind the screen with his shirt half on, shaking his head to rid his hair of excess water.

"You mean instead of _boy_?" Merlin said lightly. "William, maybe. My best friend in Ealdor."

Mithian turned to look right at him; he'd told her of Will's death, fighting to free their village from bandits. Giving his life to save Arthur's, telling a lie to save Merlin's. A village boy and another knight's son who'd regarded nobility and royalty with bitterness – and who'd changed his mind.

But what she said was, "Aren't you getting in the bath?"

"No," he said, surprise submerging embarrassment. "Servants don't, especially in their masters' baths. That would raise more than a few eyebrows here, which is something we don't need."

Mithian looked unhappy; it hurt Merlin – she shouldn't have come, no matter how advantageous her presence proved – but he turned away to Gwaine. "Do you remember the layout of the cells, how to get in and out, or do I have to go searching, myself?"

Gwaine frowned, pausing in tightening the laces of his tunic at his throat. "We're not going to do this tonight."

Merlin took a breath, and then another, and didn't change his mind. "I'm not going to _wait_."

He didn't miss the look Gwaine gave Mithian, but he ignored it, striding back to the bedroom to retrieve Gwaine's boots and sword-belt. As he returned, he overheard his friend speaking in a low voice to the princess, who'd drawn closer to him to hang her towel over the dressing screen.

"…Not just a servant… fighter, but…"

Merlin didn't pause, bringing Gwaine the finishing touches of his son-of-a-knight, guest-of-a-king finery. "We can't do this during the day, there will be too many people around," he said, absolutely unconcerned that they would be discussing him, especially if there were doubts occurring to Mithian to make her change her mind. "And Caerleon sounded like he could reject you tomorrow and have you escorted back outside the gate."

"We've thought of a plan for that," Mithian said neutrally, half-turned to finish combing her hair by the heat of the fire – Merlin made a mental note to carry and store extra wood. "I can excuse myself early tonight, and if it looks like Caerleon is going to dismiss Gwaine tomorrow, I can plead illness. I'm pretty sure Annis will let us stay, then – a few more days, that is."

Merlin shook his head – not to disagree, but because he really was unwilling to wait. "We don't know what they'll be doing with Arthur in the meantime. It sounded to me like Annis doesn't know what's really going on with their hostage – Caerleon could spend a few hours down there after dinner tonight and I can't sit here in this room and let it happen."

"So I'll keep him up late and make sure he goes to bed drunk," Gwaine proposed, buckling and settling his sword-belt around his hips. "Come on, Merlin, if Arthur goes missing our first night here –"

"Better if he goes missing while you two are at dinner with the king and queen," Merlin challenged, "and obviously not involved." That had been Arthur's own plan, years ago, when they'd rescued Mordred from Camelot's dungeon – and it had worked, then.

"And what's the plan for getting the four of us out of here, then?" Gwaine demanded. "If I can get Caerleon to add me to his ranks, I might be able to –"

"I'm _not_ waiting for that," Merlin warned him.

"Right, well," Mithian interrupted, winding her slender leather tie around several inches of hair over her shoulder, leaving the rest of the curls to dry further. "It's dinnertime, and they will wonder what's keeping us."

"Wait til we can make a plan," Gwaine said to Merlin, who set his jaw. Gwaine growled, but turned away to the door.

Mithian came to Merlin, and he tensed for her warnings and cautions, too. And instead she held out her hand as if to give him something. He opened his palm reflexively, and she placed the red-silk-thread bracelet in his hand, turning her wrist up in clear invitation.

Merlin hesitated. Maybe it wouldn't mean anything, no more than Gwaine giving her his father's ring temporarily. But it felt like _commitment_ to him, that he wasn't free to make. That he never had been free to make, he'd only been deluding himself and misleading her.

Whether she noticed or guessed, or not, Mithian said quietly, "I am very grateful to have this – the magical protection you spelled into the stones will be good for my peace of mind, here."

She spoke, he understood with relief, not to reduce the gift to an impersonal charm of safety, but to shift its significance away from romance, however slightly. And in that spirit of caring for a friend, he could tie the bracelet around the tight cuff of her dress and be glad himself that it was there.

Gwaine had the door open, his elbow extended, a stern look for Merlin silently repeating his insistent advice to wait. Mithian went to him – Merlin drifted behind her – she took Gwaine's elbow and the edge of the door to pull it closed.

And met Merlin's eyes unexpectedly, her own dark and luminous, the lines and curves of her face strong and determined and brave.

"Be careful," she whispered intensely – and shut the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was blue twilight, and Merlin's third trip to the shed behind the bake-house where the firewood was kept. A private, out-of-the-way place – there were a few in Camelot, too – where couples might steal a moment's privacy. When a woman's low, suggestive laugh preceded light footfalls, Merlin grimaced and prepared to announce his presence with the clatter of a dropped armful of wood.

Except the man following turned in a spot of torchlight to check behind them. Merlin recognized him, freezing in place – one of the guards who'd been in the cell with Arthur, holding his head underwater.

"I haven't seen you at night for almost a month," the woman complained breathlessly as she tugged him into blending into a shadow.

"Can't, luv. Valuable prisoner – king needs his best men on guard."

"Aww…"

The sounds that followed made Merlin clench his teeth, feeling the low burn of fury in the pit of his stomach, that this man could enjoy his freedom, like this.

"A'right," the man said gruffly, "but I've gotta be getting back in a minute…"

Merlin was sorely tempted to curse their tryst with something a bit nastier than his usual tricks-on-oblivious-guards. Instead he focused on replacing his load of firewood on the nearest stack, one chopped quarter-log at a time, so he wouldn't be heard, himself. By the time he was done, so were they – and he was glad he'd left his black jacket on over the bleached shirt, in spite of sweating with exertion and getting bits of bark and dirt on his sleeves. At least he was nearly invisible in the falling darkness as he slipped from his place to follow the couple, sauntering arm in arm back to light and company. Using magic, he caught the door swinging closed behind them, ajar about a foot-width, and watched them exchange a last sloppy kiss before the woman's skirts disappeared into the well-lit kitchen just off the hall that led deeper into the castle, where Merlin had not been.

The guard turned down the hall.

Merlin slid along the stone of the outside wall to the door-crack and glanced inside. Several voices could be heard in the kitchen, as the royal meal was probably only about half over, and perhaps they served some contingent of Caerleon's warriors as well, before cleaning duties.

A large copper pot twisted on its hook next to the hearth – Merlin glanced deliberate magic, and as the _clang_! it made when it fell drew all eyes, he passed the doorway into the hall.

Dark and deserted – a juncture several paces down glowed dimly with the flickering of torchlight on the move; he sped on his toes, ducked a look around the corner to see the guard descending a stair, his back to Merlin. He eased around it more carefully himself, aware of the possibility of the man turning, or someone coming to the kitchen door behind him, before… the guard reached the bottom of the steps and marched out of sight down another dark corridor below the kitchen, at right angles to the first wall.

Merlin crouched so he could see well down the lower hall, where any unseen person might notice his feet coming down if he wasn't careful, and crept lower into the bowels of Caerleon's castle step by step.

The guard's carried torch was the only light, and Merlin froze on the third stair to the bottom as it came into sight about six or seven paces down the hall. The man stopped to pound on the heavy iron-bound door blocking his way, and someone must have answered from the other side, for the guard said clearly, "It's me, dammit, open up."

The muffled sound of a bolt being drawn on the inside was echoed by the guard Merlin had followed shooting a bolt on the outside – and the hinges shrieked as it swept inward.

Merlin hesitated, only for a second.

Then snatched away the torchlight, throwing the corridor into inky blackness, relieved only by the faint glow of light from beyond the door. Both guards exclaimed in surprise and frustration. Merlin sprinted.

Down the corridor, on the new boots Arthur had given him, lowering his shoulder and plowing into the guard he'd followed before either of them even realized he was there. Breath whooshed from the man's body in a startled grunt; Merlin grunted with the shock and a bit of pain, also, stumbling before righting himself. The guard – not so lucky - flew forward into the stone wall on the opposite side of a small guard-room.

"Hey!" his companion from the inside said –

But a motion from Merlin had him pasted to the side wall – past a lantern on a small table bracketed by a pair of chairs, next to an empty weapons-rack - so hard his limbs flopped and his head dangled on his neck. Unconscious but alive, and Merlin let him sag to the floor as the first guard stirred sluggishly.

Merlin knelt over him, fisting a hand in greasy brown-gray hair, several months past due for a trim, and turned his face away forcefully as the man began to struggle back to consciousness.

"I warn you," he hissed. "I am a sorcerer, and you have my king. If I decide it is worth my while, I could turn the stone of this floor into liquid, and push your head under. _Permanently_. Do you understand me?"

The man whimpered, and nodded under Merlin's hand.

"Where is his cell?" Merlin demanded. "And if you lie, I will return and bury you in molten rock. If you tell the truth, I will take my king and go, and you will wake in the morning with only a bad headache."

"Down that stair," the man suggested fearfully. Merlin lifted his head to see a break in the stone at the far corner, like a closet with no door – evidently a stair descended behind the wall. "The hall on your right. And the one my king calls Majesty is on the end."

"You're sure," Merlin growled menacingly.

The guard made a frightened, ingratiating noise – and Merlin slammed a sleeping spell over him ungently, before rising to check back the way he'd come.

The hall and the steps were empty; Merlin closed the door again without bolting it, and checked the stair the guard had pointed out. There was only a small slice of floor visible beyond the lowest step, opening to the side, but there was light on that level also. Merlin left the lantern on the table in the guard-room and ghosted still lower on silent feet.

Beyond the stair, a stone wall broken by two dark-mouthed halls, lit by a short uneven row of candles stuck in a waxy niche – a constant source of light, Merlin assumed, replaced when they burned out. He listened, breathing shallowly through his mouth, but heard only dripping water, somewhere out of sight. It made him shiver, and step quickly to the doorway on the right. Still no one in sight, and the far cells were almost completely blind in the gloom.

Merlin took a risk, and called – authoritatively, though not loudly – "Hello, is anyone there? Speak up!"

No answer. And he doubted that other prisoners would try – or be able to – give them away. Holding out his hand, he conjured flickering torch-flame, and ventured down the aisle between cells, separated by crusted ferrous bars.

And he recognized it. Recognized the cell at the end, and the motionless shape in the corner. Gray trousers, gray skin, gray hair. Wet, filthy stone – reeking straw.

"Arthur," Merlin said – called – coaxed.

The shape didn't even twitch, and Merlin's throat tried to close as he swallowed.

Letting the flame hover midair to give him sufficient light, Merlin wrapped both hands around bars as far apart as he could reach, and focused on Ally's first spell – _athwinan thas heard_ – vanishing the bars he held, and all those in-between. He stepped through the wide gap, approached and knelt behind the prisoner.

"Arthur," he said again, softly. He reached to roll the man's filthy, half-naked body from side to back – the chains clanked and rattled and pulled at unresisting arms - cushioning his head and feeling for a pulse at the same time.

It was there; it was not firm and steady.

His eyelids fluttered – but so did his lungs. Every breath gasped and crackled subtly under the shadows of bruising over his chest and ribs and down his belly. But it was Arthur. Even under the grime and weeks-old growth of beard, Merlin would know his king anywhere. Gently he tested for broken or cracked ribs; gently he probed a few of the darker bruises for injuries to his friend's internal organs. Nothing life-threatening, though.

"Arthur?" he tried again, and his voice caught raggedly in his throat. "It's Merlin – I'm here. Can you wake up for me?" An idea occurred, and he opened his mouth to say, _Rise and shine_ , but a sob broke out instead, and he bit his lip to remain quiet and calm.

Arthur should not be so limp, so damaged.

He put his hand on the cuffs at Arthur's wrist, padded with scraps of cloth so they wouldn't cut and chafe and leave marks, and with a murmured _Unclyse_ , they dropped to free him.

Still no response.

"Arthur, for the love of Camelot…" Merlin wriggled the crook of his elbow under Arthur's neck, bracing against the stone floor to lift his unconscious friend.

Was this what Arthur felt like when he'd visited Merlin in that cell in Camelot, after his first session with Aerldan? But Merlin would not be advocating compromise, or swearing to return.

"Come on," he said, ducking forward in his crouch, shifting his arm to raise Arthur's. He put one knee down, and tucked his shoulder – not the one that was sore from knocking down the guard – carefully into Arthur's midsection. "You should – wake up, you know? You'd be impressed… how strong I am."

Arthur moaned involuntarily a couple of times as Merlin climbed to his feet, lifting and balancing his king's weight over his shoulder.

And then it was just a question of carrying him out. Staggering to the stair – and up – reminding himself he was not going to be able to move or turn quickly, or see past Arthur's bulk.

The two guards were still down – one unconscious, one asleep. Arthur's feet butted Merlin's knees and his arms dangled down his back; Merlin stumbled against the closed door with his free hand extended and mixed grief and anger exploded with the vanishing spell again. Silent, so no one would be alerted and come running, but absolutely unmistakable come morning. The door was gone, and a sizeable chunk of rock wall to either side.

Merlin made his way down the hall slowly, unsteadily, and aware that the top of this stair was open to the hall that passed the busy kitchen.

Beyond which was fresh air and open sky. And two fortress walls, and the bakehouse and woodshed was on the side furthest from the two main gates. The odds that he could stagger the whole way – and out – without being noticed, were extremely bad. And he couldn't risk Arthur, as helpless as he was. And though he couldn't leave Gwaine and Mithian, he couldn't immediately take them, either.

He'd tried to memorize their last stop, where they'd changed clothes, but he simply wasn't certain the familiarity would be enough, not with the energy and magic he'd already expended on the trip. Again – not enough to risk Arthur's life on the magic, or to gamble that he could return the same way _and_ bring Gwaine and Mithian on a third trip, without leaving Arthur in his weakened condition alone in a winter night.

He could barely keep his head up as he mounted the second stair, alert for any passers-by in the kitchen corridor; it was hard to listen for anyone's approach over his own heavy, scuffling footfalls and fought-for breaths.

Arthur was a too-warm, too-limp weight pressing on his neck and unbalancing him and stretching the muscles in his shoulder and arm and chest – and it was all his own fault. His friend – his king – suffering because he wanted to get to know a girl, because he thought he could have a princess. Before he spoke vows to someone who wasn't his destiny.

"I'm sorry," he whispered over his shoulder.

Arthur didn't hear him.


	20. Merlin (3)

**Chapter 20: Merlin** (3)

Merlin reached the top of the stair with Arthur still draped over his shoulder; the hall was empty, for the moment. Pausing for breath, he considered if he could disguise Arthur as anything, with magic or ordinary means. Invisibility might be possible – some day in the future, after study and practice. Otherwise…

He took a deep breath and entered the hall.

The hair rose on the back of his neck to put the busy kitchen behind him, but the hum of noise remained low, contained within the room, not spilling over to the hall. At the far end, two doors stood open to another well-lit room, with the sound of dishes and voices Merlin recognized – the dining hall – and he staggered with his precious burden down the dimmer corridor opposite.

He passed two doors that were shut, and one that was open – barracks by the look, but the men inside were drinking and dicing and no one so much as glanced up at the doorway as he warily skirted the pool of light.

Beyond that, twice he heard the weighty clomping of boots. Both times he pressed himself and Arthur to the corridor wall and watched Caerleon's warrior enter the barracks – a common room, maybe – without noticing them.

His heart was pounding and he was panting by the time he reached another stair – but the flickering torchlight at the top was perfunctory, and he found he was grateful Caerleon did not employ more servants, or care much about lighting throughout his castle at night. His legs burned and trembled, and each step was welcome penance for his previous ignorance and neglect of his friend – his reward that the last hall was deserted also.

He arrived at their room from the opposite direction, and was glad that it was still empty, bathwater and low-burning fire and drying towels. He bolted the door – briefly considered trying to lower Arthur bodily into the tub, trousers and all, – and staggered instead to the bedchamber.

There was no question that he would put his king in the bed – the sole, though large, bed – but Arthur's body was both grimy and foul, and there would be questions if the sheets needed to be laundered tomorrow. Merlin's remedy was to levitate the bedside rug, covering the pillow and blanket before half-collapsing on the mattress himself in trying to lay his friend down gently.

Arthur looked even worse, in the better light and finer surroundings. Merlin could well believe he hadn't been allowed to bathe the entire time. His hair was long and lank and brown, his lips beneath beard-growth gray and cracked, his eyelids stretched red and moist.

"Arthur?" Merlin tried softly, but his king remained unconscious.

He rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of the borrowed black jacket – then took it off, and the tunic. Rolling his shirt-sleeves above his elbows, Merlin plunged himself back into practiced habits as manservant and physician's apprentice both to clean his master's unresponsive body, hair to heels, and dressed him in Gwaine's extra clothing, shirt and trousers. All the hope and encouragement he felt in finding very few breaks in the skin he was cleaning was swiftly lost in the extensive discoloration of bruising. The feverish warmth, the labored breathing, the persistent unconsciousness.

Merlin found an extra blanket in the wardrobe to tuck around his friend's body, better than the ones they'd used in traveling, and added fuel to the fire to warm the air in the room. He coaxed half a cup of water down Arthur's throat and thought about food – he could peel and mash one of the past-season apples into some water and heat it by the fire…

He was almost finished with preparations for this form of sustenance for his unconscious king when someone tried the door. Then knocked. Merlin wiped juice from his knife on the leg of his trousers and went to unbolt the door, allowing only a few inches and keeping his weapon and his king out of sight of –

Mithian, her eyes bright in the light that passed him, and all the shadows behind her. The relief that shone in her expression and touched his face with her sigh was for _his_ safety, and it knotted his stomach.

He stood back and allowed a few more inches, saying as she crossed the threshold, "I got him."

She halted for a moment, eyes on the bed in the other room, hand on his arm as if for balance. Then she glanced down at the knife in his hand – over at the apple on the table, minus its peel – and nodded resolutely.

"Good," she said, releasing him to go to the bedside. "How did it go?"

"No one saw me." Bolting the door again, he returned to chopping the apple into water. "But sooner or later the pair of guards is going to wake up, and I left a couple rather obvious signs of magic."

Mithian rounded the bed to climb onto the other half, glancing up at Merlin as she bent over Arthur; he read the look.

"Nothing to bring anyone running, though," he assured her. "I figured it could be as if Arthur's sorcerer rescued him, and it has nothing to do with Gwaine's visit, his lady or his servant." Mithian was touching Arthur, patting his cheek or feeling his pulse or opening an eyelid or something. Merlin added, "It might be a few days til we can get him out of here, we'll just have to hide him and play dumb."

If that didn't work, he could attempt to shift them all outside the castle walls to make a run for it – but in that case, he'd be just as weak and helpless as Arthur currently was, from exhaustion. He stirred the apple slush into a half-cup of water, and set it on the hearth to warm for Arthur's comfort.

Mithian sat back in the pool of her skirt on the bed. "Dinner was all right," she said. "Pretty vague – Caerleon's not exactly chatty. I believe it was the truth when Annis said they don't get much news. Mostly they seem focused on Camelot – and Cenred's abandoned territory. They heard Arthur overturned Uther's ban of magic, and allied with Nemeth, though they seem to think that he and Nemeth's princess were intended to wed." Merlin grunted, but she continued without seeming to hear him, "Sir Gwaine is quite the diplomat. I was impressed by how much he could talk without actually saying anything."

"People tend to think he's a bit of a drunken idiot who can't keep his mouth shut," Merlin said, with a half smile. "I'm glad to know you're one of the few that can see past that, though I'm not surprised."

Mithian cocked her head, though he couldn't tell if there were subtler nuances to her expression from across the room. "You're very good at that."

The part of his mind that had been monitoring his hot-apple-mash decided it was probably warm enough, and he bent to retrieve the cup from the hearth. "At what?"

"Giving a girl a compliment that means something."

His whole body ached dully, weighed with fatigue; easily ignored. But her words sent another ripping pang through his half-riven heart. He didn't respond, only carried the cup into the bedchamber and retrieved a spoon from one of their packs. Perching on the edge of the bed next to Arthur's hip, he wedged the cup into the bend of his knee and reached to prop his king's head at a good angle for swallowing.

Exhaustion. If Caerleon had kept Arthur in this state for weeks, now, his body would be worn out in constantly trying to heal itself. Fever, and Merlin worried about the sound of his breathing, the illness his weakened state had allowed.

Three unconsciously-coerced swallows into the apple mash, Merlin uncovered Arthur's chest and stomach to test him for cracked ribs or damage to his softer insides for the second time, just in case carrying him up from the cell or the process of bathing had tipped some delicate balance of damage. He couldn't seem to stop _checking_ ; maybe he was a little paranoid.

Mithian gasped to see the horrific bruising. "Ay _damn_ , Merlin!"

It felt like an accusation. One he deserved. He seethed over the terrible evidence of Arthur's torture and couldn't help wondering if there would be further damage that couldn't be seen. Not just the worry of lung illness; men had been changed by torture. He knew he was lucky he'd only been with Aerldan a couple of days, but there was no reason to think Arthur wouldn't recover quickly, at least physically.

He went back to spooning soft warm apple into Arthur's mouth and persuading him to swallow. And was increasingly aware of Mithian watching him quietly – watching him, more than Arthur.

"What?" he said, keeping his voice quiet, though Arthur showed no sign of rousing.

"This is a side of you I haven't seen," Mithian said.

"Guilty and furious?" he suggested, and choked on his tone. His eyes blurred and tears tickled his lashes and he blinked them angrily onto the shoulder of his shirt.

"This isn't your fault, any more than it was Gwaine's," Mithian told him.

Merlin shook his head. It wasn't the same thing. Gwaine wasn't the Once and Future King's appointed protector, and he hadn't exactly chosen to leave Camelot, or for such frivolous reasons.

Mithian pushed herself up from the bed and went to the other room of the chamber. Merlin continued coaxing some nourishment into Arthur – maybe they could ask for breakfast to be served in their chamber in the morning. If he went down to the kitchen he could request specific foods that would help Arthur regain strength and would be easy to eat.

He was just finishing the last spoonful when Mithian returned, climbing back onto the bed. She'd changed from her red-brown satin dress to one of white, soft layers with a neckline that pointed down to her heart, the bodice fitted and emphasized with outlining ribbon. It was gorgeous for a nightgown – not that Merlin had any experience with women's night-wear, and he tried to keep his eyes away from hers as he set aside the spoon and emptied cup on the desk next to the bed.

And then she said, "How tired are you?"

Odd question; he did look at her then, studied her face fully for the first time in days. She looked worn also, and he could see the stress of the trip and the situation, but her dark eyes held a determined patience that captivated him. She didn't need him, he knew – but somehow felt that she was offering to need him. To attach herself to him, heart, soul, and body.

He shivered, and knew she saw it, as close as they were and as intently as she was watching him in return. He ducked his head, denying the feeling, trying to hide the expression of his emotion.

"Why?" he said. And something about the way she _evaluated_ him, sparked a memory of kneeling over Lancelot's injury after the ruins' collapse. "Do you know of any-"

" _Samod minum bealucraeft, ic agiefe minum gewealde forlaecedom thaes_ ," she said. "It's a general-healing magic, you probably guessed…"

He looked down at Arthur, damp with fever-sweat and struggling to breathe, bruised and unconscious. The spell would use strength from both of them, essentially speeding the body's normal recovery; Arthur would sleep, and Merlin – might not be able to attempt the transportation spell for a few days. Then again, after that spell, he probably wouldn't be able to use this magic, and they'd be two days from Camelot at least, and maybe as many as four if the weather turned bad. And if Caerleon came after them… Was having Arthur well and strong again worth his weakness. Yes – of course, yes.

" _Samod minum bealucraeft_ …" Merlin repeated the spell, spreading both hands above Arthur's chest.

He felt the magic wash out of him, over and into his king – as Arthur inhaled deeply, the yellows and browns faded and the reds and purples lightened to replace them – resolving into grotesque bands across his chest and belly from the rim of the tub, before the marks healed almost completely.

Arthur stirred, turning slightly on the pillow before relaxing again, the lines of tension in his face smoothing and making him look more like the young prince Merlin had learned to love. Relief drained Merlin so completely that his vision blurred around the edges and he had to lean on his arm so as not to slump onto the bed – or off of it.

"Thank you," he said to Mithian breathlessly, trying to blink or shake clarity back into his eyes.

Then he felt her fingers touch his hair, slide between strands to smooth it back, over and around his ear. And he wanted to catch her hand, rest his cheek in her palm, press a kiss to the pulse in her wrist because he was so glad she was there.

Instead he jerked back, almost unbalancing himself. _Don't forget Arthur, and what happened because you wanted and allowed these feelings_.

He said roughly, "I haven't washed."

She said – and meant it – "I don't care."

Once, a year and a half ago, Gaius had removed a damaged piece of him before it could infect the rest – and once that part of his finger was gone, his hand had healed, though it had been a long and painful process, and was not without occasional reminders. This, he thought, should be just like that.

"You _shouldn't_ care," he said, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed to Arthur's sleeping face. "Because I can't. I'm sorry – you will never know how sorry I am, but. I can't. I can't do this, I can't marry you. I can't marry anyone, I'm meant to-"

"Merlin, stop," Mithian said. She didn't sound angry – hurt, maybe a little. The bed shifted as she left it, circling behind him – and he jumped when she perched on the edge next to him, by Arthur's knee. "I won't come between you and your king, I don't want to take you from him. I only wish to stand beside you as you serve him."

He shook his head dumbly – and it made him dizzy. And his eyes were blurred again.

"We can speak again when we're safe in Camelot," she added. "There's things that-"

"There's nothing to say," he told her, belatedly realizing that he'd interrupted, and deciding that his rudeness didn't matter. "Nothing more to say. I can't marry you, so we can't continue…"

"Fine, then, I will say what I need to say and you will listen," she said, with mild exasperation. "You owe me that much, I think."

He didn't want to listen. It hurt to listen, to fight with himself – his heart that wanted to take and hold, and his head that said, _no, you can't_.

She said nothing further, just sat next to him on the edge of the bed. Merlin raised his hand to rub moisture from his eyes, to rub his forehead and the bridge of his nose, and felt himself swaying in place. Slipping down to the ground before he passed out seemed like a good idea; vaguely he felt her hands guiding him. Arm around his shoulders, fingers cupping the side of his face, as he leaned and rested.

And then realized, he hadn't gone to the floor. He was still seated on the side of the bed, his head on Mithian's shoulder, cradled in her arms.

And, damn him, he nuzzled a little further into the side of her neck. Soft, fragrant darkness; he closed his eyes so they would not be tempted to follow the neckline of her nightdress down. He couldn't make himself move away.

She whispered into his hair, brushing it aside so she could find his temple. "I love you."

 _I can't help it. I love you too._

They might have sat a minute or an hour, before Mithian's inhalation stiffened her frame, drawing Merlin back toward alertness. "What?"

"Gwaine – that's the way he knocked earlier." She shifted like she needed him to move away from her before she could get up to unbolt the door, and it seemed a good idea for him to send a thought of magic across the room to do it for her.

His friend came in, a large swift shape that exclaimed in obscenity and slammed the bolt across the door. "Arthur?"

"He's all right, he's sleeping," Mithian said immediately, and her voice vibrated through her body into his like the thrum of harp-strings. "Merlin healed him, mostly."

"And Merlin?" Gwaine strode closer, and it was easier to focus on him, though he didn't yet lift his head from Mithian's shoulder. The way her arm curved around his back, though, made him think she might resist him if he tried.

"Too much magic," she explained again.

"I said to wait." Gwaine huffed, slapping the backs of his fingers against Merlin's shoulder as he bent over the sleeping king to check for himself; Merlin smelled wine on him. "Be all right in the morning?"

Merlin murmured something that felt like a promise, but probably didn't come out clearly.

"Well, neither of them can travel like this," Gwaine said to Mithian. "If we even had a plan for getting four of us out of here…"

"Dress Arthur as one of Caerleon's," Mithian said. "Get past the gate before they realize, and then run. If we need another day, we can use the sick-wife excuse – or you could even tell Caerleon that you had to whip Merlin, and now we have to wait for him to recover."

Merlin found he could push himself upright, though every inch of him begged for sleep – nerves numb and eyelids dragging. "No one saw me," he told them, slowly so he didn't slur the words. "The timing of our visit to – Arthur's escape. Is coincidental, but we can hide Arthur. And pretend ignorance."

"I hope you're right," Gwaine said. "No one came to alert Caerleon to a missing prisoner, and I'm pretty sure he was headed straight to bed, with a headache to wake up to."

"The guards also," Merlin said. "Though I've no idea if they change shifts during the night…"

"Nothing to be done now but wait," Gwaine decided. "Come on, Merlin, down you go before you fall."

His knees jarred on the floor – he missed the rug that was still underneath Arthur – but Gwaine had caught him with an arm behind, below his shoulders, and his own palms on the stone guided him down to rest.

"You take the other side of the bed," Gwaine said – to Mithian, Merlin presumed as he blissfully allowed his eyes to shut. "I'll get our blankets out of the packs."

Mithian murmured something that sounded like agreement – a moment later she was kneeling beside Merlin, curling her fingers under his neck to coax him to lift his head. He obeyed, and she slid something that was softer padding than their wool blankets under his head.

And when someone spread a covering over him, it was too much, and he surrendered to slumber with a sense of relief and gratitude.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin dreamed of Mithian. Of burying his face in the curls of her hair and breathing in her essence. Of her sighing and gasping softly against his ear, of her arms around him and their bodies twined together and moving in tandem to touch and caress and press closer…

He woke on the stone floor with his head pillowed on her folded cloak, cold and stiff, tears drying on his face.

The sound that had woken him was repeated, a light knock at the door – a sound of servant summoning servant, without disturbing the master. He scrambled out of his blanket, assessing Arthur in an instant – very still and very pale, breathing deeply but still gaunt after his month in Caerleon's dungeon, and he hadn't yet woken to find himself free. Merlin breathed a gentle _swefe nu_ over him, and gestured for the rug to lift from the bed, carrying the slumbering king.

Mithian woke, lifting herself onto her elbow almost immediately – Merlin cautioned her with a finger over his lips as the knock sounded a third time. As he directed the rug down to the floor, and shuffling its precious unconscious burden sideways under the bed, Mithian leaned to hiss toward Gwaine, sleeping on the floor as Merlin had done, at the foot of the bed.

"Gwaine! Get up in the bed!"

Arthur was hidden; Gwaine grunted and stirred. Merlin was on his feet, padding toward the door, watching over his shoulder as the knight, rumpled and barefoot, tumbled into the sheets Mithian yanked open, sprawling like he owned the bed.

Merlin leaned into the wall and unbolted the door, allowing it ajar a few inches. A servant stood there, shabby and disheveled and grimy, as most of them here were. Merlin glanced again over his shoulder as Gwaine let out a snore, and shifted to make himself more comfortable.

"What?" Merlin asked of the servant – and had to stifle a yawn, himself.

"Her Majesty the Queen." The servant seemed both excited and impatient – rushed and inquisitive, even. "Wants your master for breakfast. Quarter of an hour. And you for service."

Nothing suspicious about the request, except that Merlin was suspicious of everyone and everything, in this place and with his king's life and freedom at stake, not to mention Mithian and Gwaine. He pushed the door open still further, so the servant could see inside the chamber – and he did, staring curiously for any detail to share with his comrades in gossip.

"Quarter of an hour?" Merlin said. "But my master was up late with yours, drinking. I try to wake him before noon, he'll have my hide."

"And if you don't, my queen'll have mine – and your master will have her displeasure."

Which was something, Merlin reflected, they had to avoid, given Caerleon's disposition. He sighed, and nodded. "I'll do my best. If the kitchen can send something up for my lady in about an hour?"

The servant nodded, turning to leave. "Someone will come."

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it; Mithian was sitting up in the bed, watching him. As much as he wanted to barricade the four of them in the room until he was able to transport them all out with magic – he knew they had to keep on with the plan for subterfuge. Arthur's sorcerer had rescued him in the night – that had nothing to do with Gwaine or his servant William.

"Gwaine," he said, pushing away from the door. "Get up. We have a quarter-hour til Queen Annis wants us."

"Do you think they know?" Mithian asked, as the knight began to drag himself bodily to alertness.

"They might know Arthur's gone, by now." Merlin had used one of the spare buckets of warm water to wash Arthur the night before, which left one still clean and lukewarm, next to glowing coals in the fireplace.

He decided Mithian could stoke the fire if she wanted to, and instead dipped a double handful of clean water to rub over his face and hands, pushing wet fingers through his hair. He poured about the same amount into a basin on a side table – that left plenty for Mithian to use - before bringing it to Gwaine, who slumped over the side of the bed.

"Where's Arthur?" Gwaine asked, still groggy.

Merlin shoved the basin in Gwaine's hands. "Watch your feet."

Gwaine lifted them as Merlin spoke the spell to pull the rug out from under the bed; Arthur's body rocked gently as he repositioned it, but the king didn't wake.

Mithian crawled to the edge to look down on him. "He looks a lot better," she observed.

Merlin turned away to put on his borrowed tunic and tuck his new boots under the frayed cuffs of the trousers; Gwaine rubbed water over his face with a deep, rough sigh.

"What about you?" Mithian added. "Are you feeling better? Well-rested?"

"I guess I have to be," Merlin said grimly, bringing Gwaine his own brocade tunic and boots from the desk-chair where they'd been draped the night before.

Gwaine abandoned the wash-basin, stepping over Arthur, standing to fit the boots to his feet. Merlin busied his fingers lacing his friend's shirt, helping him into the high-collared tunic, buttoning it and tugging the wrinkles out faster than Gwaine's confused hands could do. When he knelt to adjust Gwaine's trousers over his boots, his friend objected.

"Stop that, Merlin, you don't have to –"

"Yes, I do," Merlin said. "You have to look like I did. Even if you act like a hungover mercenary who knows nothing about anything."

"Hey," Gwaine said, on a yawn. He rubbed his eyes, widened them – then gave Merlin a grin. "All right – you ready?"

Merlin went for the apple bowl – if he was going to be serving breakfast, his own meal would have to wait til after. And he knew from experience, sometimes it was then skipped entirely. Mithian climbed off the bed, around Arthur, and followed Gwaine out of the bedchamber.

"I'll just bar the door, then," she said. "Pretend to be asleep if anyone but you two comes?"

"Probably best," Gwaine agreed. "Do I need my sword?"

"Yes," Merlin said around a mouthful of apple.

At the same time as Mithian answered, "Not for breakfast with the queen."

Gwaine looked between the two of them; Mithian raised her eyebrows to Merlin, uncertain at having her assumption contradicted. He shrugged, swallowed, and crammed more apple into his mouth, turning away.

"I guess it's better if I don't look like I expect trouble, yeah?" Gwaine decided. "If worse comes to worst, we'll need Merlin's magic, anyway." He pulled the door open, and Merlin made to follow obediently on his heels.

"Be careful," Mithian said, as she had the night before.

He looked back at her, barefoot and worried in the middle of the floor, her curls tousled and her night-dress wrinkled-soft, and it felt like a rather large chunk of apple had gotten stuck in his throat. He wanted to smile reassuringly – didn't think he could manage it.

Then Mithian smiled at him, deliberately encouraging.

He loved her so much – all of his heart tried to pound at once, but it was splitting, and it _hurt_.

"Coming?" Gwaine said, and Merlin closed the door between them.

"What do you think of the queen?" Merlin murmured as he descended the stair at the end of the hall one step behind his friend, deliberately forcing his thoughts away from the woman he'd just left.

"She's smart – smarter than Caerleon. More principled, too, though this is hard country, and I can't imagine life with Caerleon has ever been easy. I'm not sure she loves him, but she respects his position at least, and he does listen to her."

There were more people about, when they reached the foot of the stair and turned deeper into the castle. A couple of female servants, hurried and harried, more warriors passing through, but Merlin couldn't tell if any or all were specially alarmed by the escape of their king's prisoner, or tasked with hunting down the fugitive and his assistants.

Gwaine yawned loudly and stretched casually, greeting a few of them who passed more closely. Merlin stuck to his heels, keeping his head down save for quick, wary glances that told him everything he needed to know about his surroundings.

They came to the dining hall where Merlin had heard them the night before; the table was set for three. Annis – without her wolf-pelt – waited standing, her fingers laced together over her waist, negligently watching a pair of servants unload platters of food from kitchen-trays. One was the unkempt fellow who'd knocked to wake Merlin; he paused beside his queen to murmur in her ear. She listened, head cocked – then dismissed him with a nod that held more meaning for him than Merlin gathered; he left through the door they'd entered by, and closed it behind him. The other servant, a timid middle-aged stick of a woman, bowed herself out the far door.

And it was just the three of them.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," Gwaine said genially, with a slight bow and flourish. "Early morning." His voice held the slight hint of a question.

"Not for me," Annis said briskly. "Have a seat, Gwaine."

Merlin moved when she did, to hold her chair and position the heavy, high-backed thing closer to the table when she seated herself. She accepted the help, though the glance she threw over her shoulder at him was either surprised or wary. He avoided her eyes to circle and claim the only pitcher placed on the table, pouring what looked to be well-watered wine into the queen's goblet first.

And she watched him, as Gwaine settled into his seat. Merlin kept his eyes on his work.

"William, isn't it?" Annis said.

Merlin bowed, saying nothing, and passed behind her to fill Gwaine's cup as well. The far door opened discreetly to admit the unkempt servant again, but he only put his back to the wall and stood still.

Gwaine said, "Will the king be joining us?"

"I don't believe so," Annis said, "he rarely stirs before noon after drinking so much – you must be exceptionally hard-headed, Gwaine."

Gwaine laughed out loud. "It has been said, my lady. May I serve you some of this stewed pear dish?"

"In a moment, perhaps." Annis leaned forward. "William, would you like to join us." Merlin was startled into looking up – her eyes were shrewd, and it made him wary, especially since the other servant didn't bat an eyelash at such an odd request.

"It's not his place," Gwaine objected. Merlin wondered if he felt as uneasy about the unusual turn of conversation, also.

"What is his place, I wonder," the queen mused.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You see," Annis said, dropping her eyes from Merlin and beginning to serve herself a slice of steaming, dripping ham from another platter. "There was an incident last night, with a couple of our men. Two witnesses claim the time to be, while you and your lady were dining here with Caerleon and me. The incident clearly included the use of magic – and I know for a fact no one in this castle is capable of that. Which leaves your servant, doesn't it?"

"But he remained in our –" Gwaine began.

"In your chamber all night. And alone." Annis smiled thinly. "Permit me some sensible doubt. So, William. You have magic?"

It had been a long time since Merlin had to deny. And Annis was clever, but… He shrugged, juggling the pitcher to scratch the back of his head. "Magic, Highness? I don't… I mean I can't… Master?"

"What was this incident?" Gwaine interrupted, beginning to serve himself also, spearing two sausages at once with his fork. "Not a theft, I hope – I warned you about that yesterday, William." He turned to point the empty fork at Merlin – and with his face turned away from Annis, communicated an instant of questioning worry.

 _What do we do? What_ can _we do?_

"A theft of sorts, actually." Annis plied fork and knife on her sliced ham, almost unconcernedly. "We had a prisoner here. A very valuable hostage. I'm told he escaped last night during dinner, with the help of magic."

"A hostage?" Gwaine said, sounding interested, leaning forward over his own plate, with silverware idle in his hands. "Who did you have, Highness?"

Annis put a bite in her mouth, her eyes fixed coolly on Merlin. "The king of Camelot."

"King Arthur? Was your prisoner?" Gwaine's incredulity might have been laid on a bit thick. "But I heard he keeps a sorcerer in his court, now – surely that's how he escaped, if magic was involved? What does that have to do with my servant mending my socks in our quarters during dinner?"

"Perhaps nothing." Annis glanced across the room at her servant – who reached behind him to open the door –

On a warrior who raised a loaded crossbow. Pointed not at Merlin, who might have dodged or ducked behind the table – but at Gwaine. Who surely couldn't move fast enough, in that heavy chair with arms on both sides.

And fired.

Merlin inhaled – and caught the bolt with magic, less than a foot from Gwaine's chest. Gwaine jerked back reflexively – then snatched the quivering bolt and turned toward the queen. Merlin couldn't see his face, but it was rare that the good-natured expression dropped from his friend's countenance. He'd seen it a handful of times, and Gwaine truly furious was a sight to make anyone pause and reconsider.

Annis didn't blink. Satisfaction curled her thin lips. "Or perhaps Arthur's sorcerer has everything to do with your servant William. And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised after all that you'd ally yourself with Camelot, Gwaine."

"What does that –" Gwaine cut himself off. "So what now, Highness?"

Merlin kept one eye on the warrior – who held the crossbow casually, not reloading, nor wheeling to shout for reinforcements. Well-planned, he thought. Controlled.

"I assume Arthur is hiding in your chamber," Annis continued, taking a swallow from her goblet – and now addressing Merlin. "I did mean it when I said he was a valuable hostage – he won't be harmed. And I do respect your loyalty and your daring in trying to rescue him – so much so that I will have the two of you and your lady escorted from our lands without further punishment, if you give your word nothing further underhanded will be attempted."

He held her gaze and believed she meant what she said. But.

"Let's talk about underhanded," Merlin said, setting the jug on the table and straightening his shoulders. Gwaine pushed his chair back a few inches, so he could be out of it in a moment if he had to. "Let's talk about Arthur's treatment while he's been your hostage. Let's talk about torture and privation and untreated illness. No, I'll not leave him here. I will do whatever I must to see my king freed from yours."

Annis was shocked into forgetting her breakfast entirely. "What do you mean, torture?" she demanded.

Before he could answer with an accusation against her husband, Merlin's attention was snatched by the crossbow-wielding guard at the door, alerting to some other disturbance in the hall. He reached for another bolt in the quiver at his belt – Merlin's hand rose to stop him firing again, and Gwaine was on his feet.

"Don't touch it!" Mithian's voice snapped. "Drop the crossbow and step back, or your friend suffers for it."

The guard turned to look a question at his queen, who rose slowly in her place at the head of the table, wearing an intrigued expression and nodding at him to obey. The guard set the crossbow down, pushing the servant to the corner of the room as another of Caerleon's warriors shuffled into view, his own hands empty and aloft.

Behind him, Mithian came into view wearing her white sleeping-gown and handling a loaded crossbow herself, skillfully. She met Merlin's eyes for a moment before he saw the man behind her.

Arthur, backing into the room with someone's drawn sword in hand to cover their rear, wearing Gwaine's extra clothes and no boots. He slammed the door and turned – clean-shaven, shaggy golden hair clean and combed – his mouth grim and stern, his eyes and bones gaunt. But upright and _present_.

Merlin gave a sigh of relief and smiled.

Before the door behind him banged open, and he whirled to see Caerleon enter, crowded by several of his warriors, ready and eager for battle – all with swords bared in their hands.

"Take the one with the sword alive," Caerleon commanded. "Kill the rest."

 **A/N: Merlin's healing spell is roughly translated, "Through my magic, I give my strength for this healing."**

 **Also, fair warning. Next chapter is Arthur's pov, and I'm doing a considerable amount of backtracking through the past month before we pick this cliffie back up… Good news is, I probably won't wait a full week before updates, as I'm trying to get this done before November's NaNoWriMo…**


	21. Arthur

**A/N: Just so I don't lose anyone, remember this chapter will go back in time about a month, and we won't catch up to Gwaine/Merlin/Mithian til next chapter…**

 **Part V: Arthur and Guinevere**

 **Chapter 21: Arthur**

"Run, my lord! We'll hold them off!" Sir Carados' eyes were wide, his thick hair clumped with sweat, even in the cold air of almost-winter, and maybe with blood.

Arthur hesitated.

In one instant transported in memory, back to a day when he'd given a single command to his manservant – who hadn't been Orryn. And who hadn't obeyed. Whose disobedience had included years of magic – and because they'd stayed and fought, they'd won.

Because they'd stayed and fought, Merlin had been captured and tortured and nearly killed… and freed, to free Arthur's mind and understanding also. So he hesitated.

Because this wasn't a band of opportunists with shaky loyalties and questionable skill, that they'd caught up with outside Stonedown. These were mercenaries, he guessed now, with some history – fierce and committed and nearly a match for the knights he'd brought, individually –

He wished he'd brought Gwaine. And Percival, and Leon.

And Merlin.

But they were also outnumbered. And losing fast. Surrender was not to be thought of, not for the king of Camelot –

So Arthur ran. It was rough ground, stony and steep, and the cold air pinched and pasted his nostrils and lungs; running in chainmail felt quite a lot like running in water. He risked a glance over his shoulder – and his heart dropped to see at least half of the enemy force giving chase.

The other half was still more than enough to slaughter his remaining men – three still standing – two –

He topped a hill and leaped, letting himself slide down the other side, hoping to put some significant distance between himself and his pursuers swiftly, hoping to find a place where he could lose them – or just evade them until they gave up.

His breath pounded in an out, a firmly controlled rhythm. Dust rose as he skidded to the bottom of the hill, where trees nearly concealed the folding of the land that formed ravines. If he kept to the ridges, they'd see him, so he darted downward. The earth was hard with frost – maybe he wouldn't leave enough of a trail for them to follow.

He thought of Guinevere, who hadn't wanted him to come. The smile she gave him at parting, that hadn't really covered her worry. He thought of Lancelot, who'd offered to come – and Ally who'd smiled in relief when Arthur declined the suggestion.

And if he escaped, he'd have to _walk_ into Camelot, admitting his failure and the loss of his men. But if he didn't escape…

Arthur scrambled up a little rise – to find the walls of the ravine closing in, and ending.

"Dammit!"

He cast another glance back – they were twenty paces and closing – then threw himself at the far wall. Dropping the sword he'd kept hold of this long because there was no time to pause and re-sheathe it, he launched himself upward, scrabbling at the earth for purchase – root or rock. If he could get up and over, maybe no one would follow – or few enough that he could deal with, and be gone before the rest found another way to –

Faint twang. Definite thud of a crossbow bolt burying itself in the steep bank inches from his hand. Instinctively he froze.

"Next one draws blood," one of his enemies drawled arrogantly. "Come down. _My lord_."

Dammit. Arthur held his position, breathing hard against the cold mud inches from his face, and could think of no other way of living through this, as was his duty now as king.

Then again, it was a lesson he'd learned on his return from his knight's quest to the Perilous Lands, wasn't it. Sometimes it was his pride that had to be sacrificed for the good of the kingdom. To honor the sacrifice already made by his men, for his life – a sacrifice he was no longer free to make.

He dropped down, spinning and bending to reach for his discarded sword – but the mercenaries had well and truly caught up. One man whose dingy blue-purple scarf left only eyes showing shoved him back against the bank hard enough to steal his breath for a heartbeat, while another picked up Arthur's sword; he was glad he'd left his Merlin-blade in Camelot. Two others that he saw held crossbows, ready to fire.

Their comrades drew close like a pack of panting, hungry wolves with dark shifty eyes, and the alpha made his way through. A middle-aged man with gray in his shaggy hair and white in his beard, and even his sneer was wolfish.

"Your name," he demanded, "and where you're from."

"I refuse," Arthur said, testing. "I didn't surrender."

"Well, if you don't want us to ransom you…" The leader turned away, making a cut-throat signal to the man holding Arthur's sword – and he raised it unhesitatingly.

"No!" someone else called out, anguished. "You can't! That's the king!"

The horde shuffled a half-step back, all eyes on Arthur. The leader, however, waited til his men had moved aside to reveal young Carados stripped of his treasured crimson knights' cloak, already a bound and bleeding captive.

"You say this is your king?" the mercenary captain questioned him. "King Arthur of Camelot?"

Carados, his eyes on Arthur, nodded. The mercenary turned back to him, and Arthur straightened, shoving away from the man who held him.

"Well," the leader sneered. "I had no idea I rated the king himself." His men chuckled snidely. "Then again, this king seems too highly rated, after all."

Arthur's attention was caught by an ornament that had swung free of the man's shirt and hung down on the braided-leather breastplate. A silver crescent, pendant from its horns, with tiny silver balls attached to each point.

"You're Caerleon," he said without thinking.

"And you're Camelot." The other king's grin widened. "Mine."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur didn't expect accommodations in Caerleon to be like those he'd enjoyed in Mercia, or Gawant. But when he was jerked to a stop by the warrior who held his bound wrists, and the burlap bag tugged off his head, he was a little surprised at the cell where he'd been taken.

As bad as the one where Merlin had been held for Aerldan. Completely empty, save for a heap of straw years old and foul.

He couldn't help thinking of a time, years ago, when his father had arrested Bayard of Mercia on suspicion of attempting to poison his heir. Bayard had been locked in a room with a bed and a window and a chair. Linens, and a chamber pot and a hearth.

Arthur lifted his head and found Caerleon, loitering outside the iron bars that formed one side of his stone-walled prison. "What the hell is this?"

"Your new home, boy." Caerleon chuckled, echoed by the handful of his men who'd accompanied them, and the rude laughter bounced and chased ominously around the cells.

"Is this the best your kingdom has to offer, then?" Arthur demanded, suppressing his apprehension with sarcasm.

"You best learn to watch your manners with your host." Caerleon shifted to allow another to pass - one of his men, who preferred to wrap his head to the eyes in a dark scarf.

The man held a pair of cuffs in one hand – bound with strips of wool, it looked like – and the connecting chain in the other. He passed one of the cuffs through a wide iron ring bolted to the wall, and extended the manacles to Arthur, who refused to cooperate.

"You can't treat me like this," he reminded the other king. "Already you risk war-"

"Can and can't are what I say they are, here," Caerleon sneered. "And we're not afraid of a little fighting, are we, boys? No, _King Arthur_ – by the time I'm done with you, there won't be a war. There won't be the need."

Arthur realized he hadn't truly understood what he thought he'd known of Caerleon. A warrior who tested a new king's resolve in the most literal way, raiding across a border he wouldn't respect unless he was forced to. A conqueror who wouldn't follow custom when fellow royalty was captured – he'd do whatever he thought he could get away with. Arthur didn't think even his father had been that brutal, and couldn't quite deny a tremor of nerves, up his spine.

"You don't intend to ransom me?" he said. Such an arrangement almost required decent care of the person restored for a price.

Caerleon sneered. "Maybe in time."

He gestured, and the warrior who'd led Arthur, who'd removed the hood, who was mostly behind him, moved more quickly than he could react. He punched Arthur just under the ribs, in the side of his back – a vicious blow that sent Arthur to one knee, gasping and arching against the pain. The man with the cuffs moved almost as swiftly – clicking them into place at Arthur's wrists, locking them shut before he removed the cord-bindings.

Then both exited the cell, and Caerleon pulled the iron-barred door shut with a shriek of rusty hinges. That was locked also, and Arthur shifted so he could clap a hand to his bruised back in support, and stand again in spite of the pain.

"Your father was not a patient man," Caerleon said to him. "I look forward to finding out, what kind of a man you are."

"Caerleon, I'm warning you – don't do anything you're going to regret," Arthur said.

The king laughed – the warriors laughed – not as sycophants indulging a capricious ruler, but as a group of like-minded comrades. They turned away, retreating slowly down an aisle between other cells – empty, Arthur thought – as Caerleon moved between them to lead them out.

Arthur kept his chin up and his fists clenched through several backwards glances. Through the last man moving out of sight, and voices dropping away to a faint murmur. Through the dripping of water, and the faraway flicker of candlelight left to him.

"Carados?" he called. Before the sack had been fitted roughly over his head, just after his capture on the moors, he'd seen his captors preparing his young knight for similar transport. If they hadn't killed him then and there, Arthur could hope that the young man had survived, but – there was no answer. "Carados!"

Drip. Drip. Flicker.

Maybe it meant that Carados had been sent back to Camelot as a messenger. Arthur wondered how long it would take him to make the trip – refused to consider any accident befalling him on the way. He wondered how much Caerleon would ask for – whether Leon and the council would bargain or comply – and how the insult of this cell factored into Caerleon's plans. He himself was thinking seriously of mustering the army come spring, and retaking Stonedown at least. Maybe a few more towns – Evorwick had been part of Uther's treaty with Caerleon's father, years ago.

He wondered how long he could stand before he'd be forced to sit on the grimy stone. Sleep sitting up, obviously, and there was no way he was touching the pile of straw in the corner.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Time passed, and maybe boredom and isolation made Arthur's mind and body assume more of it, than was reality. _Days_ , it felt like.

He paced as far as the chains allowed. Tested how he could change position by twisting, himself and the chain connecting the cuffs, to face the open iron bars, or the back stone wall. He examined each inch of his bonds for weaknesses that he could exploit – though he wouldn't allow himself to despair at the irrationality of planning to fight his way through Caerleon's stronghold and _out_ and _home_. First things first.

But there was no weakness in the chain, or cuffs, or the ring bolted to the wall. No crumbling mortar between stones in the wall for him to chip at – and he couldn't reach the iron-barred wall.

He was forced to relieve himself, as he waited, maneuvering himself as far from the anchoring ring as he could get. And wondered if he was glad, after all, that there were no other prisoners. No company – but no humiliation at a lack of privacy, either.

The chains didn't allow enough movement to be counted as exercise. His legs ached. His back ached. He considered, if they brought water that could be considered extra, if he'd use it to scrub a patch of floor and wall, and sit – except that he had no brush, or cloth that wasn't clothing. He thought about stains on the seat of his trousers, on the back of his gambeson, since they'd taken his armor, and his hips ached and his head ached and his stomach pinched.

His head spun when he made another turn of short pacing – and he sat down. Began to imagine he could feel the foul damp seep through his clothing.

The sound of scuffing footfalls pricked his ears, and he was on his feet again when a guard appeared, a horn cup held awkwardly in one hand, and a torch in the other. In Camelot the prisoners were fed twice a day, their meals brought on a tray by a servant.

"Finally," Arthur said. He couldn't help himself. "Tell your lord that the service of his castle is abysmal."

The guard stopped three paces from the cell. "Do you want this or not?"

Arthur couldn't gather enough spit to swallow without coughing. He considered whether he should refuse, on principle – and then wondered if the defiance would even reach the king's ears. Or if Caerleon would care. He turned sideways to the man, deliberately, and lifted his chin.

The man grunted derisively, taking the final steps. Setting the torch into a bracket on the wall outside the cell – Arthur saw from the corner of his eye - he transferred something from the hand that held the cup into the other. When he chucked the object between the bars and into the cell with a dry rattle at Arthur's feet, Arthur didn't look down. The guard didn't unlock the door, instead reaching through to set the cup down. Then reclaimed his torch and turned to leave.

"How long have I been here?" Arthur asked, before he knew he intended to speak.

The guard only snorted, and walked away without answering.

Arthur looked down, to find a heel of bread at his feet. Oh, disgusting. He picked it up – his stomach growled and his mind rebelled; he was determined that Caerleon would not humiliate him. Perhaps the king was waiting just out of sight, ready to mock Arthur's acceptance of a mean beggar's scrap.

Then again… maybe not. He knew that the lack of external time indicators could severely stress a prisoner's mind, and that torturers like Aerldan could deliberately confuse those senses further with irregularly spaced mealtimes.

If this could be called a meal. Hostages held for ransom were different than captives to be tortured for information, and treated accordingly. A king very clearly fell into the former category. What were Caerleon's intentions?

He should probably eat it. He didn't know when they'd give him anything else. And though the bread was stale and hard, it wasn't actually dirty – at least as far as he could make out in the dim light. Three bites, and it was gone, swallowed painfully into a stomach that cramped greedily and possessively around the morsel.

And the horn cup was out of reach, even if he allowed one arm to be pulled behind him, as far as he could make his body stretch. He tried kneeling and leaning forward, intending to catch the rim with his teeth – and couldn't. He finally stretched full length on his back on the floor, picking the cup up carefully between his boots, and scooting it closer by bending his knees. Closer, and closer, til he could reach it with one hand.

And no one came to laugh at his ridiculous antics.

And the cup was only half-full, even though he hadn't spilled a drop.

It occurred to him that he was exhausted, and he'd already stretched himself on the floor – if his clothes were going to soak in stains or smells, they'd probably already done so.

But he ignored the idea of trying to sleep, and instead stomped on the horn cup til it splintered. Then bloodied his fingers trying to find a piece that could be made to pick the lock on the cuffs. That lock, then the one on the cell door; if he surprised a guard he could hope for a dagger at least, and then jump someone else for a sword or a bow, and if he was really lucky –

The splinters bent and snapped bits off, and his eyes grew heavy and his head throbbed because the bread and water hadn't been enough.

He woke with an upward jerk of his head, sending a spasm of pain through his horribly stiff neck. And worked another splinter off the horn cup, to try to finesse or force the lock. He didn't stop til the cup was in a thousand blunted slivers and more than one jammed under his skin til he couldn't help thinking of Aerldan's pins under Merlin's fingernails and torture controlled by the king. He found himself staring at the bits of horn cup on the ground and wondering if there was any nutritional value in them. Wondering if he could conceal any of them for an effective weapon, when the guards came back.

Surely Carados was in Camelot by now.

Arthur startled awake again, his chin up from his chest and his arms uncurling with a rattle of chains, when the guard – same one or another, he didn't know – approached the cell with a torch and another handful. A dipper and another crust, he thought – but the man stopped short of the cell, again.

"Where's yer cup?" he demanded.

Arthur pushed himself to his feet. "It broke," he said, as arrogantly careless as he could. "I dropped it."

The guard – scarf covering his hair and forehead to his eyebrows, beard as long as his chest – stared at him for a few moments. Then he turned on his heel to head back the way he'd come.

Arthur had to squelch the urge to call after him, apologize, beg him not to go without passing along the food and water. He didn't stand long, either, before black spots swam before his eyes and it was a choice of sit down or fall down.

It might, he thought, be possible to die of boredom.

And then, unexpectedly, Caerleon himself came, striding down the aisle with a torch that flared painfully in Arthur's vision, used now to the dim of the prison. He was followed by a pair of men carrying something Arthur couldn't see behind the king, once he was on his feet. The king set the torch in the wall-bracket, and produced a key to unlock and enter the cell.

"It's come to my attention that you threw a tantrum over the tableware you've been given," Caerleon said mockingly. "I'm afraid we're going to have to confiscate your boots so this doesn't happen again."

"When my council ransoms me," Arthur said, and his voice sounded at once too raspy and not strong enough.

"If," Caerleon countered before he could finish – and slammed his fist into Arthur's gut.

When he doubled over gasping, the older man pushed him unceremoniously to the floor. One of his warriors entered and yanked Arthur's boots off, no matter how he tried to kick and curl his toes. Glaring, Arthur managed to get his knees under him.

"Caerleon, I swear you're going to regret –"

The older man ignored him to drawl, "But, without your cup, I'm sure you must be thirsty by now."

Involuntarily, Arthur tried to swallow – his throat stuck shut, and he couldn't force any more words out, not to threaten or negotiate. Not to plead. _Yes, dammit – really thirsty_.

Caerleon stepped aside, and the one warrior tossed away Arthur's boots to help his comrade pick up what looked like a laundry wash-tub. Sloshing full of enough water to satisfy the needs of Arthur's body, within and without, and thoroughly scrub the entire cell. He watched, confused, as they brought it into the cell and set it down; when he tried to get his feet under him, Caerleon clamped down on the muscle joining his neck to his right shoulder, and Arthur was forced to stay on his knees.

"Allow my men to assist you, Majesty," the king sneered.

As he backed away, the two warriors loomed over Arthur – he scrambled back to give himself space, trying to avoid their attempts to catch and hold him, punching awkwardly. More than once his fist didn't land, snatched short by the chain and padded cuffs, and kicking without boots didn't work any better. The lack of food and water and decent rest had weakened him, and they wrestled him to his knees, stretched him forward so his arms swung behind him.

And when both men at his sides – one kneeling, one crouching – twisted a hand in his gambeson over his shoulder blades to bend him down toward the tub, he understood.

Enough to fight again – and to panic quietly when it did no good and his breath stirred and rippled the surface of the water and humiliation was no longer a concern.

His face plunged under the surface.

He held his breath, trying to turn his head one way or the other – they had a hold of his hair and he couldn't so much as free his ears of the muting water. He kicked, and struggled.

And then he was fighting his own body, needing to breathe and knowing he couldn't, and there was no rational thought or plan at all, just thrashing terrified that Caerleon meant to drown him like a crippled pup right here and now.

His arms pulled at their sockets, and the rim of the tub clattered on his ribs. The iron grip on his head slackened and he gasped in air around the water trickling down his face, blinded for the instant.

Three lung-fulls. Half of a fourth.

Caerleon mumbled something, and they pushed him down again.

 _Oh hells oh hells_ \- He was helpless. Couldn't stop them, couldn't stop himself – he was in control of nothing and no one –

The pressure relented again, and he choked trying to breathe and cough and not dunk himself – bands of pain squeezed his chest and his knees and the tops of his unshod feet burned from trying to kick or push his way free.

When he was released he flopped backwards, nearly dislocating his arms before he got them untwisted. Air, was all he could think about, raggedly sucking it in – releasing it reluctantly to quick gulp another breath. His hair dripped water in his face, and he blinked up at Caerleon standing over him as he wallowed on the floor. A silver edge of light glinted in his hand and Arthur flinched as the other king bent.

"Oh, look – it seems you've spilled on your jacket," Caerleon rasped. "I would be a terrible host if I allowed you to continue wearing it in such a condition."

One by one, he slit the buttons off the gambeson, then sawed the fabric right off one arm, then the other. Arthur believed he wouldn't care if he ripped flesh as he was doing it, but he didn't so much as draw blood.

Arthur was shivering with reaction by the time he was done. He realized the other two had removed the tub while Caerleon removed his padded jacket, and shifted to try for a more upright position as the other king let himself out of the cell, locking it behind him.

"Perhaps next time we'll have more opportunity to talk." Caerleon bent to pick up Arthur's discarded boots, and tucked them under his arm with the ruined gambeson. "If you can remember your manners."

Arthur watched him take down the torch, turn his back and stalk out of sight down the row of cells and around the corner.

He spent considerable time trying to decide if he wished he'd hurled some parting bit of sarcasm at his captor, or not.

And then, slowly and with private but very real shame, positioned himself that he might sip some of the spilled water from the slight depressions in the filthy stone of the floor.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a recurring thought. He wasn't sure, himself, if he was being patiently canny, or slowly cowed.

He did know that he wasn't good at doing nothing. Thinking or waiting, not for extended periods of time; Gaius always told him he was a terrible patient.

Sometimes he raged, yanking ineffectually at the chains that bruised his wrists without breaking the skin. He was furious with himself for leaving Camelot and for losing the battle; he was furious with Caerleon and with each and every one of his enemy's men.

 _Don't hate_ , Merlin's voice whispered, _you're better than that_.

Sometimes he was furious with Merlin. Because Merlin was a private hope he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge – and every moment that passed without miraculous rescue was an unfair and irrational disappointment. Merlin was in Nemeth, not Camelot – and did he really want his friend to risk himself so? The ghost of a fear drifted around the edges of that deliberately-ignored hope – what if Merlin had risked, and failed. Would Arthur even know.

Then sometimes he turned to stewing with worry for what conversation Caerleon had planned. Torture for information, after all, as illogical as that was? In that case, there would be no ransom and no freedom, and the most Arthur could hope for was a mistake on the part of his handlers, and a quick death. In the flickering candlelight and the dripping water he could hear when he was still, Arthur was afraid to be tested. Afraid that sooner or later, his will would break – and maybe without him even realizing it. And if Carados had not been sent with the demand for ransom, then Camelot would not know he was still alive – and Merlin would not ever come.

Sometimes he could think of nothing but the miserable pinching of his stomach. He was given crusts, periodically, though never enough. He was given another horn cup; occasionally refilled with water, because he left it unbroken. And seethed that he couldn't risk showing defiance and independence, snatching some freedom of will, by breaking another cup.

As it turned out, it didn't matter. After he'd been given bread and water twice more – which two meals of the day? or two days, and only one meal each? – Caerleon returned.

Again followed by two of his men, carrying the full wash-tub.

Arthur was on his feet, trying desperately to hide the pounding of his heart.

"Majesty," Caerleon sneered.

The king unlocked the cell for his two men to enter; Arthur tried to kick the wash-tub over, but it wasn't close enough to reach with strength. And he was wrestled down and dunked.

Again. And again. And again.

He had no breath to beg or threaten. The snatches of words he heard when they let him heave for air sounded like the king complaining about his wife. It occurred to Arthur that the queen might not know about this treatment of their captive royal.

No idea how to use that knowledge for his own benefit. Back in the tub, choking and thrashing and he blacked out for a moment before they released him.

He lay on the floor shaking and squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to sob for relief that they were removing the tub from the cell, for humiliation that he was lying on the floor shaking, as Caerleon watched.

The door squeak-clanged shut. The key rasped in the lock. Footsteps retreated, leaving Arthur alone.

 _Why is he doing this?_ Arthur asked himself – and the answer haunted him.

 _Because he can._

One more meal, and Caerleon came again, followed by the washtub. Arthur clawed his way to his feet, already shaking and feeling ill with fear. Telling himself they wouldn't kill him – at least not today – didn't do much good.

"Arthur," Caerleon drawled, unlocking the door as his men waited, the dripping tub suspended between them. "Let's talk."

He didn't answer him. _Discretion_ , he told himself. Is _a part of valor_. Which meant that silence could be brave. Survival was worth more than pride – but he worried about submission and _change_.

"I have here," Caerleon withdrew a scroll from a pocket inside his hide jacket and unrolled it with a flourish, "an official treaty between our kingdoms. _I Arthur Pendragon, king of Camelot et cetera, being of sound mind and et cetera, do hereby relinquish_ –"

"No," Arthur interrupted.

Caerleon paused, but he wasn't surprised. "Are you sure you want to decide so quickly? You could at least hear me out –"

"No," Arthur said again.

Caerleon shrugged. Stepped back to allow the two men to enter.

Arthur was seized and forced to kneel. And deprived of air so long his lungs convulsed and he longed to suck water into the desperate void in his chest.

And again.

And again.

He barely noticed when they left, exhausted and half blind and deaf with the throbbing in his head and chest and the only thing in the world that meant anything was air. He lay on the floor and panted and dripped and trembled.

At least now he knew Caerleon's intention – to force him to sign whatever damned treaty he'd drawn up, and of course it would be heavily in Caerleon's favor. And of course Arthur would not be released to return to his own kingdom and knights and citadel unless the old wolf was convinced that Arthur's spirit was too broken to contemplate breaking the treaty with rebellion. Even if Arthur's pride and honor could bear signing falsely and claiming coercion, admitting that he'd succumbed to the torture at least that much, lying to free himself.

 _But if it means you're alive and fit to rule_ , he argued with himself.

And what when the others – Bayard and Alined, even Godwyn and Rodor – learned that Arthur signed and reneged, no matter what the circumstances? It might even make his own council doubt his word, especially since his reign was so young and virtually untested.

Yes, but…

This was the test, and he would hold true.

It was hard to hold true, when he was so alone.

Integrity, he told himself, was what you did when no one was watching.

No one watching was unbearably lonely.

He thought of Gwen, and it helped to dwell on her sweet love and gentle sympathy and soft support. Her horror to discover his position and condition had him pushing himself up to sitting, drawing the tattered pieces of his soul and his pride together, settling in himself that he was _all right_ and would remain _all right_. They could kill him but they'd never break him.

Because he also thought of the men of his patrol, men who'd sworn to him and had given their lives in his defense, that he might live to serve Camelot. He wouldn't disgrace their memory – he recited names and brought up faces in his mind's eye, this one laughing, this one fighting, this one itching his ear when he didn't think his king was looking – or their sacrifice, by giving anything to Caerleon.

Thrice more he was fed, before Caerleon came again – and Arthur's heart spiked to hear the footfalls signaling approach all three times.

This time the king carrying the torch was only followed by one man with a crossbow, not two with a tub. As Caerleon inserted the key in the lock of the cell door, Arthur pushed himself up to his feet, swallowing dryly at the sudden thought that they meant to use fire, this time.

"We have company, Majesty," Caerleon informed him, resting his hand negligently on the half-open door, making no move to enter the cell. "Two of your knights, come to see for themselves that we have you alive and well, before whoever you left in charge decides to pay your ransom or negotiate."

Hope flooded Arthur's soul – then checked. Only two, and within Caerleon's control. Caerleon, who had no honor for treaties kept or hostages attended.

"Alive and well?" he rasped, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders with an effort.

Caerleon gave him a wolfish grin. "You must make them believe it," he said. "Their lives are in your hands. If they suspect _anything_ … their mounts can be turned loose on your side of the border. Their necks can be broken and their bodies can be found at the bottom of some treacherous cliff with the path washed away. Or something." He shrugged. "You understand me."

"Yes," Arthur spat. "Yes, I think I do."

"Come along, then."


	22. Arthur (2)

**Chapter 22: Arthur** (2)

 _"We have company, Majesty," Caerleon informed him. "Two of your knights, come to see for themselves that we have you alive and well, before whoever you left in charge decides to pay your ransom or negotiate… Come along, then."_

Caerleon stood aside, reaching to take the crossbow from his warrior, who entered the cell to unlock Arthur's shackles for the first time.

He rubbed his wrists and considered his chances of killing Caerleon right here and now – no, probably not. No matter that it seemed they didn't intend to use a form of torture that wouldn't leave any lasting evidence upon his person, he was too weak from lack of proper nourishment. One fist to the gut would lay him out, right now, and only delay the meeting with his knights.

Caerleon seemed to read his thoughts. Sneering, he turned his back to saunter away, arrogantly confident that Arthur couldn't and therefore wouldn't, attack him.

The warrior nudged him and gestured, and Arthur padded after the king on filthy stockinged feet.

Down the row of cells, around a corner and up a stair that made Arthur's legs ache and his breath spark pain throughout his chest. He was noticeably slower, ascending, than either of the other two men, and wondered if it was entirely a physical effect. At the top of the stair was a little room with a table and a set of backless chairs, an empty weapons rack on the wall. A pile of folded clothing lay next to a pair of boots on the table – and Arthur couldn't quite help startling at the sight of the water-filled washtub on the floor.

Caerleon bared his teeth in a grin. "Wash yourself thoroughly, Majesty. Company for dinner, after all, and you reek like swine."

"Privacy," Arthur demanded, not pointing out that his state of squalor was Caerleon's own fault.

"That's what this is." The king gestured between himself and his guard. "If you're going to be rude about it, I'll call the others. How many attendants do you require, Majesty?"

"Oh, just a few loyal ones," Arthur shot back.

Caerleon stared at him, unamused. Also uncaring – and Arthur knew why. His knights couldn't stay, couldn't take him with them, couldn't even suspect that he needed…

Well, would he have his men besiege Caerleon's castle and die by the dozens, for him?

And he'd already decided that he couldn't feign brokenness and cooperation, for the sake of freedom. So what was there left? Just endurance, maybe.

Ignoring his enemies – mumble, snicker, mock – he stripped to his skin and scrubbed it, scalp to toes. His hair felt a bit long in his fingers as he combed it, smoothing it as best he could. His face bristled with whiskers and his nails could stand with paring, and if they didn't think they could trust him with the sharp implements necessary for those particulars of personal hygiene, he wouldn't beg.

Perhaps his knights could read into the details.

But the clothes were clean, and of fine material that felt uncomfortably delightful on his skin – it bothered him to be thankful for anything Caerleon gave him. The tunic that covered his white shirt was unadorned black, the collar high, the shirt cuffs too tight to shift and betray bruising.

"He's pretty when he's clean, isn't he?" Caerleon jeered coarsely, and his guard muffled a snicker.

Arthur was still buttoning the tunic when a knock sounded on the door. Caerleon nodded to his guard to open it, revealing another turbaned warrior, with a crust of bread balanced on the side of a steaming bowl, and a carved wooden goblet in his other hand. Arthur straightened under the man's glance – though he looked almost immediately to his king for permission to complete his chore – trying to hide the way his stomach twisted on itself with hunger at the rich smell of beef broth. His mouth was salivating involuntarily. Caerleon jerked his head, and the guard deposited the cup and bowl – stew, not just broth – on the table before exiting, leaving the door standing open, as if in invitation, or temptation.

Arthur pretended to be fussing indifferently with his cuffs. "What's that for? I thought I was invited to dinner – proof of wellbeing, and so on."

"Can't let deprivation overcome your manners, can we?" Caerleon returned condescendingly. "Think of it as your own personal opening course."

Arthur dearly wished to wipe the smug look off the other king's face with his knuckles. Instead he kept his gait slow, sauntering to the table. His fingers trembled with the desire to grab and ravage – thick broth soaking fresh bread. He forced his chin up, meeting Caerleon's eyes.

"Is this really the best your kitchen can produce?" he said sardonically. "I think I'll pass." His stomach cramped in protest, but he held his expression even.

Caerleon let out a hoarse laugh, pushing himself up from his perch on the edge of the table. "Not broken yet, by damn. That's good, it means you won't slip up and make killing your knights necessary. Have it your way, Majesty – follow me."

Arthur thought of three ways he could have killed the other king – if he had his full strength and the guard behind him not armed with a crossbow – but still memorized as much of the stronghold as he could see or guess at, along their route. The smells in the air were almost torturous – if he hadn't been assured of partaking in their meal – and he couldn't stop thinking incongruously how clean everything was.

And following on Caerleon's heels into a dining hall – impression of set table and ready chair, other guests including warriors wearing indigo and at least one woman – Arthur was paralyzed at the sight of his two men, struggling not to show the myriad emotions suddenly warring inside him.

 _Relief_. And at the same time, _worry_ because he must not let them suspect the truth; if Caerleon thought they'd guessed – it would mean their lives.

Pride, to see the polished and chainmail and bold scarlet tunics, the gold embroidered dragon he hadn't realized he'd _missed_ til that moment. And a dreadful empty homesickness – he wasn't wearing his own colors, and might never again.

But recognition brought the greatest turmoil. Sir Brenner – well and good, he was level-headed and could be honorably courteous to a monster; he'd have to, tonight. Arthur also thought, he'd take his king's word for the situation, and believe anything he said.

But the other. Ah, hells – Sir Leon.

His keen perception stemmed from genuine concern for Arthur as a friend as well as his king – and he'd be far harder to fool. It made Arthur wonder – dangerously – if it would be possible to send a message of the truth of his situation without Caerleon noticing. But Leon was also his heir, though that was information restricted to the two of them, and the council. If anything happened to Leon while Arthur was captive, Camelot would be leaderless and vulnerable – internal warfare probably inevitable as the lords and knights quarreled over who else they'd swear allegiance to as king. And if the kingdom didn't split, it would be helpless before any invasion – and meanwhile the people suffered the very real effects of destabilization.

"My lord!" Leon exclaimed immediately.

And Sir Brenner, at the same time, "Sire! Are you all right?"

Arthur couldn't move; they began to come to him, and he panicked to think they would begin to discover, and to question. Bruises, strength decreased, muscle weight lost – maybe even the desperation he felt visible in his eyes.

"Ah!" Caerleon warned sharply.

Both knights halted as if they'd been given instructions on allowed behavior beforehand. Then returned their attention from their host to Arthur.

"You are all right, sire, aren't you?" Leon questioned.

"I wasn't injured when I was taken," Arthur said. Deliberately raising his chin and adopting a certain attitude from his youth, when facing his father for displeased scrutiny and censure. Royal arrogance allowed for little else to show.

Leon moved his eyes to Caerleon, and back again. "And now?" They weren't close enough to speak without being overheard – a precaution Caerleon had undoubtedly required for the meeting.

Arthur pasted a sarcastic half-smile on. "It would be rude to complain in front of my hostess."

The tension at Leon's eyes eased, as if Arthur's attitude reassured him. Caerleon snorted, and a woman said, "Sir Knights, my lord Kings – dinner is served. Would it please you to be seated?"

Leon tried to catch Arthur' eye as they moved for the table, but Arthur didn't allow it, even though both his knights were placed across from him. He didn't want Leon to wonder at his reaction to the sight of the table – platters piled high with food steaming and aromatic – dishes and silverware and _damn_ , everything was so clean.

He distracted himself by surreptitiously studying Caerleon's queen. Annis, though they hadn't been formally introduced. She was sharp, though not ungracious; their position as his hostage-holders gave her confidence in the situation, though that was probably not lacking, else. She had the poise of a consummate hostess and the manner of a queen; Arthur almost respected her, and couldn't help wondering what her husband had told her of his care.

It didn't matter, probably. Unlikely that she'd wield any real authority to challenge his successfully.

Annis led the conversation skillfully, touching on mild and common topics like the weather and the condition of the roads. She asked general questions about Camelot, and Brenner left the responses to Leon, who gave away nothing significant, but was distracted in that duty, from his inspection of his king.

Arthur focused on his fork and knife, cutting deliberately and chewing slowly and keeping his eyes down, though he felt both his men watching him periodically. The knowledge that Leon at least would almost certainly deal with Caerleon, maybe Annis also, after he was removed from the room, was like an itch between his shoulder-blades where he couldn't scratch.

 _Now that you've seen for yourself… what is Camelot's response to our demands._

Negotiation that concerned Arthur intimately, which he would not be part of. No, he'd be returned to… He repressed that thought, so emotion wouldn't overflow, dragging Brenner and Leon down with him.

And then his plate was empty – he forced himself to stop scraping it and licking his silverware – and the food being removed by servants out of the room's single back door. His stomach was almost uncomfortably full, though he hadn't eaten more than he would have at dinner in Camelot, and inclined to cramp in the confusion of so much and so rich, after so little. He stood when the others stood, trying with all his strength to betray no reluctance.

"You must be tired from your journey," Annis was saying to the two knights of Camelot. "And of course you'll want to start upon your return as soon as possible in the morning. I will have wine sent to your room, and bid you good evening, now."

Both Brenner and Leon bowed and murmured properly. Caerleon and two of his warriors moved toward Arthur – who avoided looking at the other king.

"My lord?" Leon said softly; the table was still between them. Arthur lifted his head but couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Have you any message for anyone in Camelot, that I could carry?"

Arthur could hardly breathe around the lump in his throat. Anyone in Camelot… Fewer friends now, than last season, and he couldn't possibly say anything as obvious as _Send for Merlin_ , or anything as suspicious as, _Tell my manservant_. Or anything as private as, _Give Guinevere my love_ …

Instead he shook his head – and then connected his gaze to Leon's. "Your strength is mine," he said.

There was an uncertain wrinkle between his friend's brows, but he bowed, understanding what Arthur meant. _Give them nothing_.

Arthur barely heard Caerleon's more brusque leave-taking of his guests, as he was herded back the way they'd come, with increasing roughness, once they were out of sight of the dining hall. And he denied the urge to look over his shoulder for one last glimpse, if his knights had stepped to the hall to watch him being taken away.

Down the first stair, and through the door to the little guard-room. Where he was ordered to strip off the clothing he'd been given.

"You don't want your borrowed finery ruined, do you?" Caerleon drawled.

Arthur bit his tongue on desperate and ill-advised rudeness. They could force him, after all.

He was given only his trousers back – filthy and worn toward ragged. Apparently his shirt had gone missing in his absence; Caerleon mockingly promised to search for the thief and have the garment returned, if Arthur valued it. He didn't bother mentioning socks, choosing instead to remain silent. He also kept his chin up and his eyes level, so he couldn't see the bruising on his chest that ached every time he breathed.

His bare feet slid in the damp grime, down the second flight of stone steps, and just that quickly, the comfort of cleanliness was gone as surely as the comfort of adequate clothing. He was marched to his cell, where he didn't bother resisting the guard who shackled him to the wall once again with the cuffs padded so they would leave no marks.

Caerleon intended, Arthur knew, to scar and deform his heart and soul and spirit so thoroughly he need never fear Arthur revealing this torture – and no one could ever prove it, then.

Arthur twisted his arms and the chains that held them around so he could face Caerleon, lounging in the open doorway of the cell. "If you named a sum, Camelot would pay you. If you met me under truce, I would treat with you as an equal. But–"

"As an equal," Caerleon snarled, his sarcasm slipping to something more like genuine malice. "Treaties, and pretty words all twisted round, from a snot-nosed boy with clean hands and fancy clothes, who believes he's better than me. Ha! – no. I will prove to you that you are less than nothing, and when I'm finished, you will thank me for allowing you to swear yourself and your kingdom as my vassal."

Arthur was furious. And maybe a little terrified. But he glared at Caerleon and said deliberately, "Don't hold your breath."

Caerleon straightened from his slouch, and the malice was lessened by surprise. "I could almost like you for that. If I'd ever had a son –"

"Shut up," Arthur said. "You are nothing like my father." Reflexively; he wouldn't allow himself to examine comparisons too closely.

"Maybe not," Caerleon mused. Then turned as the sound of footsteps caught Arthur's ear.

And two warriors moved into view, carrying a washtub between them by the rope handles, heavy and sloshing.

Arthur's throat closed as his heart rose into it – and he didn't even realize he'd moved til his bare back hit the cold slime of the stone wall. And he didn't move away, but pressed into it.

For the love of… Camelot. Not even a day. Not even an hour.

In spite of his initial physical reaction, Arthur fought when the two warriors reached for him. He fought as his knees were kicked out from under him, and his bruises bent over the tub's rim. He fought as his head was lowered to the water.

"Camelot is mine," he heard Caerleon say, over his panting grunts of breath, kicking and struggling. "The sooner you accept that –"

Arthur closed his eyes and held what breath was in his lungs as his face plunged into the water, up to his neck. As a new line of bruising pressure slanted across his ribs. As his toenails broke and tore on the stone of the floor.

 _No, it isn't. And it isn't mine, either._

Camelot wasn't his to give away, to subject to another sovereign's rule. It was only his to serve, by his life or by his death.

They held him down til he thought his lungs would burst. They gave him three breaths, and did it again.

He vomited his full fine dinner onto the water-splashed floor – and nearly choked when they submerged him immediately. He vomited bile when they let him up – and they washed his face for him again, plunging his head into the tub til his strength was gone and they had to yank him up and out by his hair, dropping him to swing bonelessly by his chained arms.

"Care to sign the treaty, now?" Caerleon said nonchalantly, moving out of the doorway as his men retreated with the half-emptied tub. "You could return home with your knights in the morning…"

Arthur's breath rattled around the droplets in his throat, in his lungs. "Go to hell."

Caerleon grinned. "I'll see you there tomorrow."

Arthur's body heaved for air; his ears rang and his eyes blurred, and it was some time before he could move even sluggishly to ease the strain on his arms in lying nearer the back wall. Which was all right; it kept him out of the vomit on the floor.

He hugged his chest and thought how Brenner and Leon were still there – maybe still awake. And they might as well have been in Camelot.

He hoped that Leon would protect the borders – but not risk the army invading Caerleon to avenge him; he doubted this castle could be taken easily, without significant loss of life. He hoped the council would not treat with this king who had broken the faith of their kingdoms and fathers. He hoped his knights would follow and support Leon wholeheartedly.

He was glad that Lancelot had Lady Alayna, but Gwen now had no one to turn to for comfort and hope; he squeezed his cold arms tighter to his aching chest and couldn't deny the hot tears that stung his eyes. He would never relent. Which meant Caerleon would never let him go. And with escape impossible, he was dead already.

And Arthur dreamed of the one chance he had, that he couldn't allow himself to contemplate awake.

Arthur dreamed of Merlin.

 _He dreamed of his sorcerer alighting atop the castle's highest tower, and beginning to dig through the heavy dark stone with his bare hands – like a child who's buried a treasure at the bottom of a play castle made of sand or mud or blocks of wood – tossing great chunks far to the sides. And people like ants scurrying and screaming, crushed beneath pieces of their home or smeared across the stone when the destroyer shifted position._

Caerleon and his two warriors – the same two? it didn't matter – came again. Lights, footsteps, water splashing on stone. The scroll from Caerleon's pocket.

And Arthur had to say no. He wouldn't allow himself any other choice.

 _He dreamed of a roaring earthquake. The ground rolling and shuddering, hard enough to fling him into the air. The stones of the fortress popped loose; the bars clanged against each other like a dropped rack of spears. Metal shrieked and twisted as the castle was slowly disemboweled. He saw daylight and a figure striding toward him, lightly through the rubble, stepping on stones that lay on top of people – stepping on the people. Once crunching someone's skull under his boot like a careless farm-maid stepping on an unclaimed egg. He drew near, and smiled as he bent to reach for Arthur's hand – his eyes smoldered with bronze fire. It was Merlin._

A guard brought him bread.

Sometimes he was awake. Sometimes he was sitting up. He didn't bother to stand, though; there was no point.

Three pairs of footsteps. Arthur ignored Caerleon. He struggled, or he didn't, but every time, he fought to hold his breath and not drown. Maybe it was pride.

 _He dreamed that the walls rippled in a wave of heat. The faint candlelight burned higher and hotter til the iron of his bars dripped like icicles on a sunny afternoon. And Merlin wafted to him unconcerned that the fortress flowed liquid away from them – far miles in every direction, a lake of glowing death leaving no survivors. His friend's heart and soul was hard as diamond, hot as a forge, even as he appeared childishly satisfied with himself, pleased to have gotten his way with this devastating magic, to have rescued his king as he claimed his destiny._

Arthur shivered until he wasn't aware of the cold anymore, and didn't care about his constant lethargy, and only vaguely noted the way the water seemed to remain in his lungs, turning them soggy in a way that made him cough whenever he breathed too deeply. He thought of Gaius.

And when he was more alert, he sometimes wondered what would happen in Camelot when he died.

 _He dreamed that all sensation fell away from him, and he rose to standing in the cell, looking down upon his own curled, shackled corpse. He heard a frantic, indistinct shouting and looked up to see his lanky black-haired friend tearing down the aisle between cells, Caerleon's men in pursuit. Merlin yanked the bars right out of the stone, tossing them carelessly backward – the warriors ducked and scrambled – and darting into the cell. Falling to knees and searching and_ searching _, for signs of life. Fingers digging into the corpse's wrist, then neck; Merlin lifting the body's chest in his arms to press his ear to a silent heart. Merlin's face upturned, weeping – then screaming, too late. And the force of his scream was a gale that scoured the earth from horizon to horizon, down to stained and porous bedrock. Arthur watched, helpless to intervene._

One set of footsteps meant bread. Three sets of footsteps meant water.

In the haze between consciousness and oblivion, Arthur was not sure whether to hope that Merlin would finally come, or not. He was not afraid of Merlin, he never had been. But rather, he was afraid _for_ Merlin…

 _He dreamed that Caerleon's two warriors hauled him up by his arms, and the chains were gone, but he was too weak to raise his hands to any effective defense. They dragged him forward – and the stairs led to a cobbled courtyard. Blinded by sunlight, he didn't see the pyre bristling dead-wood til he was nearly upon it. Terror froze his breath in his chest as he was thrust upon the waiting bonfire – and he almost didn't notice Merlin standing beyond, separate from a faceless crowd. Dressed in a long black robe, arms crossed over his chest and face impassive as marble. Arthur tried to call to him, but couldn't breathe. He was cold, but smoke began to curl in his chest, filling his lungs, and he understood. He'd failed destiny, he'd outlived his usefulness…_

 _Just before his eyes went dark, he saw Merlin break from his pose to rush forward. Arms outstretched, face pale and eyes dark with desperate worry, the kind that came from unshakable loyalty and abiding love. Arthur struggled, determined that Merlin would not join him on the pyre again, but the feel of his friend's arms encircling his ribs would not be denied…_

And even when that sensation turned into the rim of the washtub and the smoke of his execution became water cold and turbulent around his ears, he felt Merlin's presence. Representative of all his people. _Hold on a little while longer_ …

He blinked and tried to focus on Caerleon, tried to hold his resolve as terror scrabbled at his grip. "No," he said, as firmly as he could. And repeated, "No, no, no –"

Water blinded him and filled his nostrils, and he _fought_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur dreamed again, of a thick padding beneath his body, protecting him from the stone of the floor. Of his wrists free and cool and light, of clothes and blankets covering him.

He opened his eyes and tasted apples, and didn't know where he was.

A room the size of his own in the citadel in Camelot - nearly impossible to recall but coming back to him with the reminder of his current surroundings – similarly furnished, but darker, and different. There was nothing he recognized as familiar, even as his mind defined the objects around him… and he seemed to be lying on the floor.

Why would he dream himself into unfamiliar surroundings – and then next to the bed that towered above him, making his eyes blur with vast expanses of clean sun-bleached linen, a luxury that seemed so foreign to him, now.

But his lungs felt clean of gummy fluid, and his head wasn't foggy. He couldn't smell anything foul, not himself nor his surroundings.

The mattress moved and the bedclothes rustled, and a wealth of black curls cascaded into his vision. He searched eagerly – but instead of Guinevere's round sun-kissed cheeks, he found a narrower face with much paler skin. Arthur blinked and recognized Princess Mithian of Nemeth, who was smiling and twisting her hair back behind her neck.

"I'm dreaming," he whispered, not trying to move – in case it would jolt him back to the cold damp stone and iron of his cell.

"No, you've just woken up," Mithian said. She moved back from him; he watched her leave the bed and circle to his side, kneeling down to lay the backs of her fingers against his cheek and forehead. She seemed to be wearing her nightgown.

Arthur closed his eyes and swallowed hard against a sudden lump, accompanied by a prickling sensation in his nose and behind his eyelids. The touch was too gentle; her femininity was too sympathetic. He felt closer to breaking now than he had since Caerleon had caught him in the gorge – if this was a trick or hallucination –

"I'm dead, then?" he suggested hopefully, his voice still feeling husky in his throat. Past breaking, past worrying how Caerleon might use him against his kingdom.

"No – Your Highness, no." She sounded near tears herself – and drops rolled down his temples as he opened his eyes to look at her again. She was still smiling widely, happily – but her eyes shone with the emotion he heard in her voice. "I came here with Merlin and Gwaine. Since your council and Sir Leon couldn't –"

He couldn't quite believe they'd actually negotiated a release. He wasn't sure he wanted to allow himself to contemplate _rescue_. But…

"This is real," he interrupted, not sure if he was trying to convince himself, or begging her to do it. He dug his fingertips into the surface beneath him, the woven fibers of a rug. "This is real…"

"Merlin found you in the cells last night, and brought you out," Mithian told him, and there was a subtle note of pride in the saying of his name that Arthur decided to think about later. "He used some healing magic on you – how do you feel?"

Arthur breathed deep – and clear. There was no sticky tightness within his chest, no painful ache of bruising without. He brought his hands together and rubbed his wrists simultaneously; the twinge of his bones was faint and _healing_. And his hands were clean. All of him was clean.

He was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by emotion. Relief, and gratitude, but he couldn't hold it to a calm expression. His heart expanded, squeezing his lungs – he gasped to suppress the sobs that threatened, and couldn't quite. It had been far too long an ordeal to be shrugged off with a sardonic grin and an offhand quip – but because he was still him, he had to roll to his back, away from Mithian, and crush his fists against his face. Pressing to his forehead, covering his eyes, he finally let the tension release, and when he felt Mithian's hand rubbing his back soothingly, it helped to pull him back from the despair of torture, and the guilt he felt now at the hopelessness he'd felt then.

Knuckling away the last of the moisture from his eyes, he cleared his throat and breathed twice, trying to think like a free man… and a warrior… and a king, again. It didn't come easily.

He said, "So – Gwaine. And Merlin. And you?"

Mithian's hand retreated. "Sir Leon sent Sir Elyan to Gawant, I think? And Gwaine came for Merlin…"

Arthur loosened his muscles and rolled to his back again, keeping one wrist over his eyes. He had been reminded, forcibly and repeatedly, how very worthless he was – he was deeply and fervently grateful for men like these. Leon who _knew_ , and Gwaine and Merlin who _risked_.

"How long have I been here?" he said into the darkness, pressing his wrist-bone into the bridge of his nose.

"A month," she answered. "Give or take."

He tried the muscles of his chest and stomach, and they contracted obediently to bring him to sitting. He was… maybe not quite three-quarters strength, he thought – but all of him worked properly. Leaning forward over slightly bent knees, he looked sideways at Mithian, propped up on one hand with her legs curled under the full white skirt of her nightdress.

A month he'd been away… a month Gwaine had spent as a new husband and lord; a month Merlin had been in Nemeth. It seemed years ago since they'd received word of Merlin's intent to remain there for the winter – and he cringed to remember his eagerness for one last campaign, to deal with bandits on the border as a relief from the looming boredom of the coldest season. If it had been bandits, and not King Caerleon and his warriors, he'd probably have been fine.

"Are we still in Caerleon's fortress?" he asked. There was nothing in her manner that indicated danger or haste, but –

"Merlin doesn't yet have the strength of magic to transport all of us out," she explained. "He said no one saw you two last night, but –"

Arthur understood. Of course his escape would not go unnoticed, and the king and his castle of warriors would _react_. It struck him, how odd for the two of them, royalty both, to be sitting on the floor in nightwear – but Mithian seemed perfectly comfortable. On the floor, in her nightdress, in an enemy stronghold.

"Where are Merlin and Gwaine now?" he asked.

"At breakfast with Queen Annis. Yesterday when we arrived Gwaine claimed to be searching for permanent patronage, and Caerleon's supposed to be giving him his trials today. It sounded like the queen wanted to talk to Gwaine without her husband present, and asked Merlin to serve."

"They haven't sounded an alarm for my escape yet?" he said.

"No – Merlin and Gwaine think they can play it off as having nothing to do with us. Since Camelot has a sorcerer who can do anything with magic." Her eyes crinkled prettily when she smiled, and Arthur snorted.

"What's…" He turned to get his knees under him, held onto the side of the bed to get on his feet. "The plan for getting out of here? Besides waiting on Merlin to risk the insane kind of magic transporting _four_ of us would take?"

"It depends on you." Mithian rose more gracefully, watching him gain his balance. "If Gwaine can fail his trials without arousing suspicion, we'll probably be told to leave. And if we dress you as one of Caerleon's warriors – some of them cover their faces – you can pretend to be escorting us outside the walls, and –"

"Leap onto a horse and ride?" Arthur said. "And then just outrun them?"

He located a basin of water on a small table next to a bucket and a crumpled towel, and he was thankful to be able to share wash-water with his loyal friends. He made it across the room with his balance intact, though his knees felt like jelly, and blood pounded unpleasantly in his head.

Mithian followed. "Merlin can probably hold off any pursuit, don't you think? with magic?"

He glanced at her – there was that tone again - before he wet the towel in the water and scrubbed it over his face. "Are you and Merlin betrothed now?"

She blushed and looked down, playing with a bit of ribbon loose at her waist, before crossing her arms over her chest in an unconsciously self-defensive attitude. "We were going to do it according to his customs. And he'd asked my father's blessing, the day before – the day before we left. But now…"

"But now?" Arthur dropped the towel and began a series of stretches, feeling for balance in movement, and the new limits of his reduced strength. He watched Mithian turn away, as if seeking a distraction; she noticed and retrieved a rather wizened apple from a bowl on a side table, and handed it to him.

"The kitchen was going to send a tray for me," she said, not meeting his eyes. "But for now, this is all we've got – sorry."

"It's fine." He probably couldn't handle a big meal, anyway.

Biting into the wrinkled skin, Arthur finished the out-of-season fruit in three bites, moving back to the bedchamber to scan for – one of those bags was Gwaine's and one was Merlin's, he expected, steadying himself to bend over without getting dizzy. Gwaine's would have a comb – yes, this was the knight's – and Merlin's would have implements he could borrow to shave… though it looked like his one-time servant had neglected them for a couple of days, at least, still packed all the way at the bottom.

He moved for the basin and soap and mirror; Caerleon's warriors mostly went unshaven and long-haired, but if he was going to wrap his face in disguise anyway, he wanted to feel like himself, at least. Lathering his chin and beginning to scrape, he glanced at Mithian's reflection, beside his own and several paces back.

"You were saying – _but now_?"

"Merlin is different. He's changed, he's…" She looked at him, troubled and hesitant, and he couldn't help thinking of his dreams, like feverish memories.

"He's different how?" Arthur added. Hesitated, then ventured, "Vengeful?"

It was not a word he'd associate with his young friend. He'd seen Merlin face Morgause, and the Fisher King with confidence. He'd been quietly determined talking to an ignorant Arthur about dragons and eggs and tombs – he'd hidden the burn on his arm where he'd been set on fire after Arthur's coronation banquet and he'd forgiven the sorceress who'd enchanted his mind for a week in favor of calling her cousin. He always forgave, when it came to insults to him…

"No," Mithian hedged. "I'd say – focused, which is entirely appropriate, right now. But I'm afraid he's changed his mind about marriage, and I… don't think I can change it back."

Arthur turned to look at her, wiping his chin on the towel. A princess, and probably too proud to beg outright or wheedle seductively; he shook his head – such odd thoughts to have in regard to his skinny clumsy former-servant. Not so much, he reminded himself, in regard to a confident, powerful sorcerer… And if he'd wondered, a few months ago, whether Merlin's loyalty to him would shift when a woman was involved – now he had his answer. And he wasn't sure he liked it, if such tenaciously focused loyalty led Merlin to the sort of actions Arthur had feared in his nightmares…

He said to her, "You love him."

She met his eyes, grave and regal, tears brimming but not falling from her own, and Arthur sighed.

"Then don't give up hope. If it's one thing I've learned since…" It was harder than he expected, to think back before his imprisonment; it had begun to feel like his whole life was bounded by that cell. "Anyway, love is funny like that. More powerful than magic, I sometimes think. And things can turn out better than –"

A quick double-knock sounded on the chamber door; both of them startled, and Arthur was not reassured when Mithian remained tense. She motioned a suggestion for him to hide himself behind the dressing screen, and said aloud, "Yes? Who's there?"

"Kitchen servant with breakfast?"

Arthur slipped behind the dressing screen – flinching involuntarily to find a full tub of water, before catching and controlling himself. He positioned himself close behind the chamber door that would open the other direction, still able to step into concealment if the servant entered instead of handing the tray to Mithian. She glanced at him, reaching for the bolt – he nodded, and she drew it back, opening the door.

The look on her face was immediate warning, something was wrong. Surprise turned to wariness; she tried to hold the door from opening further with her body, though she was slender and light and barefoot.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "You lied to me!"

"Queen's orders," said an unfamiliar voice – with the hard note of a soldier, rather than a servant. "We know you're concealing a prisoner in this chamber – let go of the door and move out of the way."

 **A/N: Yep, another cliffie. Sorry-not sorry.**


	23. Arthur (3)

**Chapter 23: Arthur** (3)

" _We know you're concealing a prisoner in this chamber – let go of the door and move out of the way."_

"That's absolutely absurd – get out!" Mithian struggled, couldn't hold the door; the point of a loaded crossbow showed and Arthur's galloping heart-rate thrummed a little faster – though oddly calmer to face imminent action with freedom.

An elbow showed, then a shoulder. "Get back, my lady, or we'll force you."

Arthur signaled. Mithian did not betray him by shifting her eyes – but widened them, falling back. Her chest was heaving, and her hand fluttered as though she found breathing difficult in her fright – Arthur noted that it was probably very effective in directing the man's attention to the low pointed neckline and fitted bodice of her nightdress.

"I can't believe you would… of course there's no one here but me…"

Arthur swayed back behind the screen, but the guard followed Mithian as she retreated along the wall, eyes on her even as the bow swung negligently toward the middle of the room. A second man entered – Arthur hoped Caerleon's men habitually followed orders in pairs rather than trios – with a drawn sword held upright in his hand.

The man was halfway through the door when Arthur lunged, knocking him into the lintel with the door, trapping him and seizing the hilt of the sword in his own hand. When the warrior didn't immediately let go, Arthur slammed his fingers into the wall, heaving his weight against the door again.

As the hilt slipped into his grasp, he tugged the guard into the room, off balance, slamming the door with his left hand, palm open on the plank to feel it shudder with the force of the movement.

Mithian had not shrieked or cowered – she'd attacked. With the bolt pointed safely away from her, she'd stepped into quite a forceful punch – into the throat of the bowman. Nicely done, he thought – protect those delicate little fingers and incapacitate the warrior, who freed a hand to reach for his throat as he choked momentarily on the blow. She seized the crossbow with both hands, whirling and wrenching it from his remaining hand – and leveled it on its former owner a scant second after Arthur had his appropriated sword at the neck of the second.

"Did your brothers teach you that?" Arthur asked; she was breathing as hard as he was, and didn't answer.

Swift glances all around. Arthur didn't recognize either of the two, which took an edge of panic off his impetus; he decided not to kill them outright. They seemed to realize that choice, and themselves stilled to surrender, not making further fighting necessary.

He was glad for that. The sword felt too heavy in his hand; he was nowhere near peak fighting capacity.

"When you said you _knew_ I was here," Arthur addressed the one he'd disarmed calmly; there was no point denying who he was. "Were you bluffing the lady? Hoping to get inside to search?"

His man had a rash of dark stubble, long tangled hair showing gray, and one eye that didn't keep up with the other; the fellow Mithian covered with the crossbow had a jagged scar flattening his nose and twisting one eyebrow and the corner of his upper lip. They exchanged looks – Arthur hoped he didn't have to threaten to follow through – and his man finally answered.

"The queen said you'd be here."

Arthur felt Mithian's look, and understood. The question of how could Annis be sure seemed to be linked to the statement of, she summoned Gwaine and Merlin. Were they only having breakfast? Arthur couldn't imagine either man giving him up even under torture more intense than he'd experienced – more than once he'd decided he'd rather dunk his head in Caerleon's washtub than lose a finger to Aerldan's thumb-screw. And even if one was used against the other, Arthur thought Gwaine and Merlin understood one another well enough to allow the suffering to protect their king.

Then again, if they were suspected, it was no surprise that their chamber would be searched, or that the guards' orders would carry a given, rather than a possibility.

"Where is the king?" Arthur demanded.

Another glance exchanged, so swiftly he could not get a sense of the feeling behind it. "Still abed."

Mithian's scarred captive added, addressing and correcting his companion, "Unless he's been roused by the alarm of the prisoner's escape."

So the queen suspected, and acted on her own with a few warriors – but the rest of the fortress might be ordered to follow Caerleon's lead. And Gwaine and Merlin had begun the morning with the queen, wherever they were now.

"What were your orders when you found me?" he said. Mithian shifted her acquired crossbow, finger steady on the trigger, and he found he trusted her to follow his lead.

The guard shrugged. "Bring you to her."

And she'd probably wonder if they delayed too long, and might even send reinforcements. Arthur focused on the fellow at the receiving end of Mithian's pending shot. "Get the curtain cord – tie your friend here in that chair. Tight, or I'll make sure he doesn't leave the room because he can't."

As the man complied with slow and careful movements, Mithian said to Arthur, "We're going to them?"

Arthur nodded. "We'll take this fellow to make sure we get to the queen safely, and then…" He hesitated to say, _We'll take her hostage_ , in front of loyal warriors who were cooperating so far – probably because they didn't think they could or needed to risk stopping him themselves.

Mithian seemed to understand. "Maybe she can assist in our escape," she murmured significantly. And did not ask to be allowed time to dress properly; Arthur was impressed.

They supervised the binding of the scarred warrior; Arthur would have tied the curtain cord himself, but for the thought that he didn't have the strength to fasten the knots tightly enough. The guard was gagged also, but they only needed to manage a few moments without the impediment of two hostages at this point; perhaps the whole castle was alerted already, or would be in moments. Speed was more important than preventing discovery.

"Lead to the way to the queen," Arthur ordered the second guard. "Mithian, cover him. An arrow in his… er, _seat_ , is acceptable if he attempts anything unpermitted."

Mithian had a wide cheerful smile that lit up her face, and a healthy dose of courage; Arthur didn't think the guard fully appreciated either. He decided he was going to personally make sure that Merlin fully appreciated Mithian and her smile and her courage, in spite of her fear that he'd changed his mind.

If the king still lay abed, it seemed the bulk of his fighting force might have chosen to do the same. Once they pressed to a corridor wall as a loose four-man group passed unmindful through the open chamber at the end of the hall. And once they startled a pair of middle-aged servants on hands and knees scrubbing – Mithian smiled and held a finger to her lips and the women sat back on their heels to watch the three of them, Arthur behind Mithian to cover their retreat.

"It's just here," Mithian's captive said.

Arthur's fleeting glance gave him the impression of a set of double doors – possibly recognizable from his dinner with Brenner and Leon how long ago now – before his attention was yanked to the end of the last hall they'd turned down. A shout – two warrior-figures silhouetted against the greater light of the chamber beyond, which wasn't saying much, but joined by two more, then another. Arthur might have been able to take two; he hoped the queen was in that room, and not heavily guarded.

"Get inside!" he snapped over his shoulder.

"Open the door!" Mithian ordered in turn, using much the same tone.

Arthur heard the hinges; light spilled out over his shoulders, throwing the shadows of both Mithian and the guard onto the stone wall of the corridor. The five shadows at the far end rushed to join them –

"Don't touch it!" Mithian commanded someone behind him. Arthur kept close to her, shuffling into the room backwards, without crowding her elbow. "Drop the crossbow and step back, or your friend suffers for it!"

She was inside. The pursuers were scant paces away, drawing weapons and significantly _not_ calling any warnings – Arthur shouldered his way through the door, reaching to slam it and drop the ready bar into place. Unfortunately, it wasn't a beam to span the width of the double entrance, but only a foot-long block that held both doors together in the middle. It could be broken through eventually; raising his sword slightly, he turned to survey the room.

In the corner of his vision, Mithian and the guard they'd brought from the bedchamber – a second who'd probably stood attendant in the room, crossbow at his feet and empty hands raised in surrender – a drab servant cowering in the corner.

Centrally, Gwaine. Dressed almost as finely as he had been for his knighting ceremony in Camelot, but without the chainmail, dressed as finely as Arthur had last seen him in Gawant. Further away, at the head of the table – seated, but still a _presence_ – Queen Annis, auburn hair bound only by the gold circlet that rested on her forehead. Both with looks of surprise, maybe consternation.

And – a pace back from the table, and nearer Arthur than Gwaine – Merlin.

Not in the black robe of his dreams, nor the subtle-fine clothing he'd persuaded the newest member of Camelot's court to wear lately, but what looked like someone else's cast-off servant's garb. Trousers that sagged over his boots, a stained tunic over an unbleached shirt that looked like he'd been sleeping in it for a week. But there was no brutally murderous gold in his eyes, no empty lack of human compassion.

In that one breath as Arthur turned from barring the door to connect his gaze with Merlin's – his young sorcerer gave him a smile.

Small, relieved, not forgetting the tension of their situation – but Arthur almost gasped in reaction. After the month he'd had, he felt very much like wrapping his arms tightly around the younger man for a moment, just like he'd done in the birch forest on their way to the Castle of Fyrien. Except this time it would be, _I thought_ I _was dead_.

The moment didn't last. Even as Arthur exhaled and began to allow the muscles of his face to relax toward an answering smile, the single door at the far corner of the room – servants' entrance – banged open. Caerleon strode in, sword bare in his hand, followed by a number of his warriors, blending together in the shadows and the tattered edges of obscure clothing.

Perhaps they could be counted by their swords – but they didn't all have swords, or not only swords, and there seemed to be more behind them, waiting beyond the doorway.

"Take the one with the sword alive," Caerleon sneered, his beady eyes glittering at Arthur across the room. "Kill the rest."

In the moment everyone drew breath, and Arthur's eyes dropped to see Gwaine _unarmed_ , what was he thinking – something large and heavy crashed into the double doors behind Arthur. Bench or chair – something to help more enemy fighters break through.

Kill or capture Caerleon, was Arthur's thought, as he forced images of utter magical destruction to the edges of his brain.

The door held, for now. Merlin could defend himself. Arthur caught Gwaine's eye and tossed him the sword he'd taken from the guard who'd invaded the bedchamber – and then everything was happening at once.

Gwaine spun to defense. Beside him, Merlin's hand rose ready. Some of the indigo-clad warriors diverted to the other side of the table in the center of the room; Annis was on her feet.

The improvised battering-ram slammed into the opposite side of the door, causing it to shudder and the bolt holding both halves together to creak.

Closer, and using the _slam_! against the door as a distraction, the wall-eyed guard they'd caught in the bedchamber knocked Mithian's crossbow away. She cried out as the bolt zip-thunked into the wood of the door; Arthur and the other bent for the second crossbow at the same time. Arthur's reaction was slower and he knew it, so he delayed long enough to break the warrior's nose with his knee, and the crossbow was his to claim.

Mithian struggled not to lose her bow to the wall-eyed man – who tried to yank it out of her hands, raising a clenched fist to menace the princess' face as he did so. Arthur swung his bow around and pulled the trigger – the wall-eyed guard cried out and went down, atop the cowering servant and knocking the bloody-faced other to the floor.

 _Slam_! The doors shuddered, the short-bar joining them closed beginning to splinter.

Arthur grabbed Mithian's upper arm, intending to shove her behind him, then search the two downed guards for a bladed weapon. As she whirled away she snatched at the bolt sticking from the door to retrieve it and load her crossbow.

Impressive.

He began to turn back to the two warriors closest to them. The motion arrested when he saw that Caerleon was directing more of his men to go around the table, bypassing Gwaine – who'd felled three already, endangering his footing – and Merlin. And they'd reach Mithian first.

"Merlin!" he hollered without thinking.

His sorcerer didn't turn to him for further instruction – instead he looked across the table, where Arthur meant to direct his attention. In a moment, Merlin had passed Gwaine, leaping to the table – one foot on the arm of a chair, then kicking trays of food and dishes out of his way.

Dammit, he was a target up there, empty-handed; some of Caerleon's men had crossbows.

Another _slam_! of whatever piece of furniture functioned as a ram in the corridor outside, and the bar that held the double doors together cracked all the way through. As they opened they separated Arthur from Mithian; he ducked behind one and seized the arm of the first man through in an attempt to simultaneously disarm an enemy and gain a weapon himself.

Mithian shrieked – more anger and warning than fear or pain. On top of the table, Merlin whirled, and now his eyes were blazing gold.

"Down!" he bellowed.

Arthur didn't think twice. Releasing his startled opponent, he dropped to one knee and lifted his arm to shield his face, glimpsing Mithian folding into a graceful crouch against the wall.

Two of the chairs from the table – heavy, high-backed, solid-armed things – flew through the air, smashing into the still-opening doors. Forcing them back into place as the various broken components of the two chairs rearranged themselves into a horizontal barricade, held in place with magic.

Swiftly, effectively… violently. The man Arthur had grabbed spun away to the floor, screaming above the clash and grunt of the rest of the battle in the room. The left side of his clothing was saturated with blood; crimson showed at his mouth a moment later in a breathless gurgle. And Arthur could see more than one man's hand caught between the two doors – could hear more than one screaming from the hall outside.

Too brutal for Merlin, he thought. But it was still _defensive_.

No time to ponder the ethics of war or the character of a friend. Now that they were covered to the rear – the best plan was still to kill Caerleon and capture the queen to force their escape. But he and Mithian were too far from the skirmish – both targets if one of Caerleon's men used a bow, or even threw a knife with any accuracy.

At least Merlin was descending to the far side of the table, no longer elevated and conspicuous.

"Get behind Merlin!" he shouted to Mithian, leaning fully against the side wall in her shock at the sorcerer's forceful barricade, crossbow dangling from inattentive fingers. She met his eyes, nodded without hesitation, and slipped along the wall toward Merlin's back.

Arthur bent for the sword the dying – no, dead now – first warrior through the double doors had dropped. And had to twist out of the way of the one whose nose he'd broken, lunging awkwardly at Arthur with a belt knife. He shoved his own blade through the man's chest, clumsy and surprised, already feeling weakness dragging at him.

Cursing Caerleon for a month of the worst of prison rations, he turned back to the room with the intent to join Gwaine. His knight had either to advance or retreat, or try to fight atop the bodies of men he'd dispatched – two of whom lay on others rather than the floor now.

He noticed the royal pair just off the head of the table, Annis gesticulating, arguing – pleading? – and Caerleon shifting like he wanted to join the fight, paying her little and resentful attention as he watched to both sides of the room-dividing table. Merlin had a sword in hand and was using it with acceptable efficiency – but when a warrior flew past the king and queen to slam into the wall with blatant supplementing magic, Caerleon shoved Annis aside to choose the fight on his left.

Annis clawed dark blue skirts out of her way and began to wade toward Gwaine and Arthur – he couldn't worry about her unarmed in the middle of warriors swinging wildly, though, or why she'd try to approach them when that would give _them_ an advantage.

"Gwaine, on your left!" he called, his body falling into an instinctive ready-to-attack stance, though he felt as tired as if he'd already been fighting the better part of an hour.

There was room for both of them to fight alongside each other, though Gwaine was protecting Arthur more than he was letting him hold his own. Because of that, Arthur was able to catch glimpses of Mithian behind Merlin, clutching his shirt and moving with him – his stance solid and his off arm extended to the side to provide her greater protection with his own body.

A flash of the surreal – _Merlin_ fighting with a sword to save a princess – and Annis ducked behind Gwaine to reach Arthur. The knight let her; Arthur knew the queen was unarmed, and probably too honorable to knife either of them in the back, anyway.

"Arthur!" she called, keeping back from his elbows, clutching fistfuls of her skirt so she wouldn't trip – maybe so she wouldn't bloody them on the casualty-strewn floor. "This has to stop!"

"Have your husband call off his men!" Arthur returned – his arms quivering under a blocked attack before Gwaine swung sideways to oppose the man.

"He won't, he –"

Annis broke off so suddenly that Arthur back-stepped to check her – following her line of focus past Gwaine to Caerleon, at the other side of the room. At that moment Caerleon shoved the one remaining warrior between himself and Merlin aside – right into the sorcerer's inelegant-but-adequate slice. Arthur could see the side of the king's sneer as he raised his sword for a killing stroke – and Merlin couldn't recover his blade to defense fast enough –

Didn't bloody have to.

Merlin's empty off hand came up and clenched into a fist. Caerleon froze mid-attack.

Gwaine shoved another body to the side – and paused himself, as no enemy immediately leaped to assault him. Arthur thought the remaining half-dozen indigo-clad warriors in the room – blocking more in the doorway and the corridor beyond, it might be – had halted, instinctively aware of their king's situation.

Caerleon's chin tipped up; his face was reddening. His free hand rose to claw at a shirt collar already open, as he took a step back, then another. His throat worked against the hold of Merlin's magic, visible even across the room.

"Arthur, he's killing him," Annis said tensely. "He can't –"

 _He can. He probably shouldn't_. Arthur watched, fascinated in spite of himself, unable to resist a feeling of rather dark vindication. _How does it feel to be unable to breathe?_

"Your Highness, please." The queen sounded half-frantic, half-controlled. "Spare him. Call off your sorcerer."

Caerleon stumbled back. Merlin followed, fist white-knuckled; he tossed the sword down contemptuously without breaking his gaze from his enemy. Mithian was still behind him, one hand tangled in the material of his unfamiliar tunic.

Gwaine turned to look at Arthur; his face was impassive, waiting for Arthur's response without any indication of what he thought it would be – or should be. Arthur opened his mouth – and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and spoke into the terrified tension of the room.

"Merlin."

His friend paused, with a quarter-turn of his head toward Arthur to indicate attention, but keeping his focus on Caerleon, who continued to gape like a fish. His dark, beady eyes were wild – he dropped his sword, but Arthur didn't think it indicative of surrender so much as panic.

"Please don't kill him," Annis said, very nearly pleading – which surprised Arthur, because he hadn't thought there was much love lost between the two. "I surrender by proxy – Arthur, I surrender the castle and the kingdom to your control and judgment, only _please_. Don't let your sorcerer…"

Arthur, haunted by the dreams of the cell, wondered if he could stop his sorcerer. He wondered if he should trust Annis – or return to the original plan of killing the king and taking the queen hostage. Only now, he rather thought she'd defy him on principle if Caerleon died…

"Merlin," he said again, more insistently.

Mithian reached up to wrap her fingers around Merlin's arm, upwards of the fist that represented his stranglehold on Caerleon, and drew it slowly down to his side. Merlin twisted as she did so, meeting her eyes momentarily; his were still angry-gold when he lifted them to Arthur and Annis, but the magic faded almost immediately.

Caerleon gasped breath audibly, painfully, the ugly purple color beginning to drain from his skin. Merlin faced him, and Arthur anticipated from the set of his shoulders what he was going to do, wincing in sympathy as –

Merlin drove his fist into Caerleon's face – as hard as he could, from the look of it. The king went down like a felled tree.

Arthur almost smiled from pride and surprise; had Gwaine taught Merlin how to hit like that? Mithian gasped, "Oh!" - and Annis sighed in relief.

Gwaine said with calm admiration, "Damn."

Merlin spun in reaction to rather obvious pain in his hand – now shaking it out, now cradling it in his other – the pained contortions of his expressive face almost comical, when compared to the dark impassivity of Arthur's dreams.

Just dreams. It would be dishonorable and unfair of Arthur to believe his idealistic young friend capable of such atrocity, even with extreme provocation.

The warrior nearest Caerleon knelt for a moment beside his king, then rose to report, "He's breathing…"

Annis looked at Arthur. He looked back at her. For a moment both of them ignored the aftermath of bloody conflict, sounds and smells and blood. She said to Arthur, "Please allow the doors open so the rest can hear me?"

Arthur looked at Merlin, who wasn't thinking about his hand anymore. And gave him a nod. If treachery was being contemplated, he'd be surprised – but they were still reasonably ready. And it was good to know such a thing now, rather than later.

Merlin didn't question, turning his gaze golden to the double doors, and the pieces of two armchairs dropped to the stone floor with a jarring clatter. A moment later the doors were pushed open tentatively by the warriors without – there were injured there, as well, and the sweep was impeded by pieces of the furniture, and the bodies of dead and injured guards inside the room.

Annis waited til those hovering on the threshold had absorbed the situation inside the room, and most eyes turned to her for order or proclamation. "Caerleon has surrendered to King Arthur of Camelot," she said clearly. "You are to treat his orders as sovereign in all things – and within a quarter of an hour, everyone in this stronghold must be made aware."

She focused on him again expectantly, and he experienced a moment of dizziness as the sudden reversal of fortune. Except… he wasn't dreaming.

"Sir Gwaine is my second in command," he said, and met the eyes of his most daredevil knight. Marveling a bit at the quirks of destiny that brought each into the other's life so unexpectedly – so beneficially. "Gwaine, see to it that former king Caerleon is secured in a cell of your choosing. Queen Annis, if you would be so kind as to select a reliable guard to see to your husband's needs while he is restrained. And he _must_ remain restrained."

She nodded, and looked past them to signal one of the warriors.

Gwaine stepped to where Arthur stood in one of the few remaining clear patches of floor in the dining hall, to throw his left arm over his shoulder in a quick rough embrace, reassuring Arthur that he had not been injured in the fight. "Just like that, huh?" he said. "Helluva plan."

"It wasn't a plan," Arthur said.

Merlin and Mithian came around the foot of the table and joined them, the princess examining Merlin's right hand for damage as they moved together.

Gwaine said to Merlin, "I admire your restraint."

Annis' eyebrow quirked, and Merlin tipped his head to grin sideways at Gwaine.

Arthur ignored all of them to reach for his young friend, gripping him tight without caring who saw. He had to take several breaths against the emotion that rose uncontrollable in his chest, gratitude for his rescue and a bit of guilty regret that he hadn't allowed himself to expect it. Merlin responded by fisting his hands in Arthur's shirt over his shoulder-blades, burying his face in Arthur's neck for a shaky inhalation of his own, and he guessed that some of the passion he'd dreamed in the younger man's reaction hadn't been too far off the mark.

"You came," Arthur said into his ear – a reassurance for both of them, that it was over. The very faint blame he'd never articulated even to himself, with the passing of time that month, disappeared in the face of proof that Merlin had done his utmost, and still wished he could have done more.

Merlin made a sound that might have been a huff of laughter, or a half-stifled sob. He was trembling, but he lifted his head far enough to say, clearly and softly into Arthur's ear, "Sorry I'm late."

Arthur slapped his back lightly, and stepped back, but kept his hands on the younger man's shoulders. "This is not your fault, you hear me?"

Merlin dropped his arms, and breathed once very deeply under Arthur's hands, searching his eyes with a deep keen blue. "Well, I thought…" he said in a low voice, and almost-shyly, "I might have lost you."

Arthur snorted and thumped a fist on Merlin's shoulder before releasing him. His own words, from when he'd discovered Merlin not dead from execution on his father's pyre, after all – and applicable, he thought, after this month of involuntary feelings of abandonment and nightmares of soulless retribution. _I thought I might have lost you_ …

The moment passed with Gwaine gripping Arthur's shoulder and telling him, "I'll see to Caerleon, but you should return to the bedchamber. Eat something, and sleep some more – you look like hell."

In focusing on Gwaine to nod in agreement – he had to trust that between the queen and his knight, things would remain peaceful – his gaze passed over Annis, who stood slightly apart and watched them with a faint expression of astonished disbelief. After a moment of all of them watching Gwaine and another turbaned warrior support and half-drag a groggy Caerleon out of the room – all the while the groans of the wounded and the stench and gore of the battle began to intrude on the senses – Annis faced Merlin and Arthur.

"What did you mean, torture?" she demanded.

"Not now," Merlin interrupted firmly. "We are leaving this room and going back to our own chamber, and if we don't receive food and water for washing in a quarter of an hour, I will come to fetch it." He said it without inflection, but Annis flinched like it was a threat. "When my king and my lady are taken care of, I will come and speak to you."

"We will come and speak to you," Arthur corrected neutrally.

Merlin glanced at him – then gave a small smile that seemed relieved, and a nod that was also a bow. Arthur appreciated that he was willing and capable of acting as his representative, but he knew his friend well enough to recognize that Merlin was glad that Arthur _wanted_ to handle this himself, as proof of his state of mind. This time would also give Annis a chance to organize her troops and recover the room and the casualties. And Arthur himself could decide more objectively, what should be done with the situation before they could all leave Caerleon and ride for home.

Annis glanced around the room, as the warriors who remained on their feet began seeing to the fallen – checking, bandaging, helping up and carrying out. She sighed, and the lines on her face seemed to deepen; Arthur labeled the expression _regret_ , and the fact that she felt so gave him hope.

"At your convenience, my lord," the queen said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"I'm sorry," Merlin said. For the third time – and they hadn't even reached the room yet.

"Shut up," Arthur told him. Then again, it was the second time he'd been forced to pause on the stair. Merlin was so close at his side he was probably aware of just how unsteady Arthur was; Mithian behind them had been silent so far. Sighing and gritting his teeth in determination, Arthur lifted his foot and continued mounting to the top of the stairs. "Mithian said you healed most of the damage – thank you."

Merlin moved ahead of him to open the door – and daylight from the chamber's windows contrasted with the dimmer corridor. "It shouldn't have happened," he said. "I should've been with you."

"No," Arthur said, conscious of the princess behind him. Merlin's reason for his absence from Camelot and Arthur's patrol – and they all knew it, Mithian included. "You were right where you belonged – and so was I. We just… were unprepared to meet a king and his band of warriors, rather than just raiders. And no one could've predicted… what Caerleon chose to do."

He shuddered involuntarily, forcing the words – but then he was past Merlin in the doorway, and wanted to change the subject.

"How's your hand? Break any of your fragile bones?"

"Just bruised, I think," the princess answered, passing Merlin, who closed the door behind them again. "It was starting to swell a bit…"

"It's fine," Merlin said, and by his tone, it was not a subject he wanted to discuss.

And, if Arthur pushed, he was capable of turning the medical attention back around on his king. Which Arthur didn't want. He headed for the bedchamber, his stomach pinching as he thought of breakfast, and the fact that he was free to eat, now – but it was used to being empty and wasn't really, this morning. And the bed with its soft mattress and clean sheets and fragrant pillows was drawing him.

"I'm glad you didn't kill him," Mithian said behind him. For a moment Arthur wasn't sure which of them she addressed.

But Merlin answered in a low, quiet voice, "I wanted to. I was angry enough."

Arthur reached the bed and turned to ease himself down to sitting. He felt sore, after more exercise that morning than he'd had any day in a long while. It was going to be a long, boringly painful process to return his body to anything like fighting fit. Across the room, he watched Merlin and Mithian watch each other.

And Merlin added, "I have, before. Killed people, I mean." Arthur opened his mouth to correct a potential misconception, but some part of his friend's heart that was pure and beautiful conscience prompted him to add, "Enemies."

Mithian's hands were on her hips, and her chin lifted – every inch of her answered, _So what?_ She said, "At least you can have that bath, now."

Merlin looked at her a moment longer before responding, "You'll want to use the screen to change. I'll wait for you to finish. Your Highness."

Arthur stripped his socks, bloodstained from the floor of the dining hall, and rubbed his feet on the rug before lifting them to the mattress. He didn't see any reason to keep himself upright, anymore, and groaned aloud in pleasure to feel every inch of his body relax into the luxury of a bed.

Merlin stepped to the foot of it, where Arthur could see him, the discarded socks retrieved in his hand.

"I don't know how you did it," Arthur remarked. And forestalled Merlin's question, adding lightly, "Sleep on the ground for nearly twenty years."

"More like ten. I shared the bed with my mother as a young child." Merlin opened his mouth to say _I'm sorry_ again –

"Stop saying that," Arthur told him. "I know you are – I know you. But I've got to – get back to myself, without worrying about hurting your feelings. Understand?"

"Throw things," Merlin said, and there was humor and relief in his voice that pleased and settled Arthur. "And call names."

"Like, you're being an idiot." Arthur closed his eyes and enjoyed the drowsy drifting sensation.

"Exactly."

"No, Merlin – you're being an idiot. With Mithian. She said she thought you might be – changing your mind?"

"Arthur…" Merlin's voice was conflicted, and floating further away. "Just rest now. I'll wake you in a while to eat and dress."

It was a good thing he'd already mostly decided what to do about Caerleon and Annis, Arthur thought, as all sensation eased away to slumber.


	24. Arthur (4)

**Chapter 24: Arthur** (4)

His nap was short but deep, and when he woke both Mithian and Merlin had changed their clothes. The princess had braided her hair in the style of her kingdom, and Merlin had bathed and shaved and donned his own clothes, with the dark-red tunic embroidered with Camelot's gold dragon over the heart.

Neither of them looked happy; Arthur didn't blame them. He was determined to sort out the issues between them – ridiculous, after the weeks Merlin had spent agonizing over the decision before he'd even gone to Nemeth – but for now, he wished he had chainmail and a crimson tunic of his own, his recently-reclaimed stone-drawn sword rather than borrowed finery. The dark brown trousers and soft fawn jacket over the high-collared blue shirt didn't quite fit, and Merlin had no time for tailoring.

Arthur didn't eat much of the breakfast that had been delivered sometime while he slept, but he was aware that his former manservant watched him with a physician's eye, and seemed satisfied by the quantity and quality of Arthur's meal; at least he said nothing to the contrary.

"How do you feel?"

"Better."

And then it was time to descend the stair again and meet with the queen. During the lapsed time there had been no rebellious disturbances that they were aware of; Arthur was encouraged to remain convinced of Annis' trustworthiness.

They were spontaneously directed to the receiving hall, a sort of antechamber to the whole castle, with the main doors open to the daylight and the chill, and servants and fighters alike moving around the periphery. Dealing with the remnants of the morning's ambush in the dining hall, he guessed; his mind tried to stretch to imagine what he would do to handle such a situation in Camelot, before retreating. It was an unnecessary exercise, and one he was yet unaccustomed to. Another discipline, this one mental, that he'd have to re-apply in returning to the responsibilities of his own kingdom and throne.

There were two great armchairs set in the middle of the space, visible to all and yet private to each other, and a small table beside them supporting scrolls and an inkwell. He approved of the arrangement; her people would see her in negotiation with him, realize the indisputable fact of the surrender and admit whatever pronouncements resulted as acceptable compromise.

Annis stood next to one waiting for him, wearing what looked to be a wolf's-pelt around her shoulders for warmth; Gwaine was just turning from conversation from her, heading toward the three of them as they reached the base of the stair that led to their shared chamber. The knight looked collected enough, but his habitual grin was gone – though neither was he wearing the stern battle-ready expression that usually replaced it. Rather, Gwaine carried the sobriety of mild shock, that caught Arthur's attention and caused him to halt in front of his friend to address him immediately.

"Gwaine," he said. "What is it?"

"The queen was just telling me…" Gwaine began. Then blinked, and recognition of Arthur drew him back toward his usual attitude. "Something about my family. My father." He glanced aside at Merlin, out of sight behind Arthur.

"Your father?" Arthur said, hating the slight confusion he felt. His mind was as unused to the agility required of it in as his body was.

"Leon didn't tell you?" The way Gwaine said it made Arthur think, Merlin knew whatever it was also. "He asked me where I'd come to Camelot from, when you knighted me. Potentially conflicting loyalties – you know Leon."

"Here?" Arthur guessed, nodding. He remembered Leon mentioning the intention to question Gwaine, the day of his coronation; he'd entrusted that task to his senior knight and thought no more about it in the busyness of that day.

"Yes, but…" Gwaine hesitated – which was also unlike him, before adding with a wry smile, "My father was a knight. One of Caerleon's."

Arthur blinked. And didn't utter any of the half-sentences that occurred to him. _But I thought… But why didn't you… But when we…_

"I left all that behind me when I left home," Gwaine said, and there was something in his voice that seemed to plead to Arthur for understanding, maybe forgiveness also. "Nobility, and all its notions. I was going to make my own way, earn my own accolades. Maybe I should have told you? But this spring, at your coronation – Arthur, that meant far more to me than any claim I might have inherited elsewhere."

Mithian made a small sound – _oh, that makes sense_ – that occurred to Arthur as well. Gwaine had always been better than an average mercenary, in talent and in honor.

Once, his pride might have smarted to have had such a secret kept from him – he looked at Merlin and saw that the younger man had known. But Merlin and Gwaine had shared a time in suffering and hiding – in service to him and Camelot – and he didn't begrudge either of them confidences they'd made. And Gwaine's secret made it possible for him and Merlin to come for Arthur – and after all, he trusted Gwaine's oath of knighthood and loyalty to Camelot. That was one they shared.

He said, "Does Elena know?"

Gwaine's grin was brilliant, and part of that seemed relief. "I told her, so she wouldn't worry about an uneducated mercenary mucking up the governing of her kingdom. I'd just as soon no one else knows, though?"

Memories of Lancelot and Percival and Elyan unfolded in his mind, of proofs to the knights born to privilege that nobility was a quality of character, not birthright. And Gwaine had chosen his side in that struggle; Arthur would choose to respect that. He nodded. "Are you going back to the room?"

"Thought I'd clean up a bit." Gwaine showed his hands, washed clean now, but there was still blood splattered brown and dried, elsewhere on his clothes.

"Do you want me to –" Merlin said.

"No, I'll do it," Gwaine interrupted him. "We're back to sharing chores, don't forget."

Arthur turned his head to catch and acknowledge his knight's leave – and looked at Merlin as Gwaine began to ascend the staircase behind them. "So you knew?"

Merlin held his gaze. "We had several conversations about fathers – general and specific."

Arthur suspected that his own father had come up, maybe more than once. It felt like a long time ago, when he'd had a father to argue with and rely on for protection. He turned back to the two chairs and the waiting queen, once again thankful for the loyalty of friends like Merlin and Mithian supporting him. He took a deep breath to fortify himself – then strode to meet her.

"Your Majesty." Annis ducked her head and spread her skirt.

Arthur couldn't help flinching at the term Caerleon had used with such venom. "Just Arthur, please."

The queen's eyes widened with surprise, and she gave her head an inquisitive twist. Arthur only gestured for her to be seated, and lowered himself to the other chair as she did so.

Merlin leaned against the side of the tall back of his seat; Arthur heard him murmur, "Would you like to sit down? I can fetch –"

Obviously to Mithian. The princess answered pre-emptively, "No, thank you. I'll stand with you."

Arthur had to fight the urge to turn around and glare til his young friend understood the significance of her words, intended or not. _Idiot_.

Annis' attention was on them as well, maybe curious about their inclusion in this privately-on-display conference. "Is William your real name?" she asked.

"This is Merlin," Arthur answered her.

"The sorcerer allowed in Camelot's court," Annis said. "I so hope we have a chance to speak later and more amicably – I am very much intrigued by your decision to reverse a law your father seemed so dedicated to enforcing."

"Perhaps," Arthur allowed.

"And I suppose your name is not Bronda, either," the queen said to Mithian.

"No," Mithian said – politely, but her voice carried a cool amusement. "It is not."

Arthur didn't turn, and after a moment Annis nodded acquiescence to Mithian's decision to remain anonymous. Arthur wondered what look Merlin might be wearing.

"Forgive me if this question is offensive," Annis went on; Arthur was willing to let her direct the conversation, at least for now. Perhaps it was the gracious diplomacy of victor – however it happened – to the surrendered, or maybe he would just rather not exert the effort to control, just now. "But your sorcerer mentioned torture, privation, and illness. I can see for myself that you're thinner since… I last laid eyes on you. If you're ill I can summon a healer?"

"Merlin is apprenticed to our court physician," Arthur said mildly. "I need no other."

"Ah. I see." Annis' eyes flicked upwards of Arthur's right shoulder with a calculating glance. "If you don't mind explaining – why the term _torture_ was used? I was under the impression that –"

"Chains," Arthur said, willing his voice to remain even. Because he could not have her pity him, or wonder if there was weakness significant to exploit, mentally or physically, after his trial. "An _empty_ cell. Bread and water at irregular and inadequate times. And to force me to sign a treaty subjugating my kingdom to yours, the former king had my head submerged in a water-filled tub, often to the point of unconsciousness." His chest ached and he had to focus a moment on the fact that he could breathe. Merlin shifted and Arthur felt the backs of his friend's fingers slip behind his shoulder. Seeking to give or receive comfort; Arthur felt both. And added sardonically, "Repeatedly."

Annis' lips were pinched, a gray cast to the skin of her face. She stared at Arthur, no doubt imagining what revenge another monarch might take after such treatment – then switched her gaze away past Merlin for another long moment. Then shook her head tightly.

"I humbly beg your pardon." Annis meant each word absolutely literally, he could tell. "On behalf of my people. And… if it is not too much, mercy on my husband's life."

"Why," Arthur responded. Without the man present, he found it easier to be unemotional with the question, what was to be done with Caerleon. "I should have him executed. Then I need never fear his attempt to return to power."

Besides the sick twisted feeling in the pit of Arthur's stomach that told him, he needed to see the king dead for what he'd done, for how Caerleon had mocked the pain and fear he caused. But if he did give in to that impulse, and execute his enemy… would that mean that Caerleon had succeeded in changing him, after all? He decided he didn't care so much, what his fellow rulers might think in hearing rumors of this story – he cared what memory he had to live with, his choices and actions.

The queen slid her eyes shut for a moment – then opened them to pin Arthur to his seat with the intensity of her expression. "Then execute me as well."

Arthur felt the shock of Merlin and Mithian both, but didn't allow it to show on his face. "You were unaware of my condition, uninvolved in the transgression of the treaty that was the taking of Stonedown. You have behaved honorably, to the best of my knowledge, under your sovereign. Why should I execute you?"

"There is no reason you should," Annis answered. "Just as there is no reason you should spare my husband… save for my wish not to outlive him. Your - _Arthur_ , I mean, I know my husband. I will not speak ill of him in his absence, but I know him. I won't claim a passionate romance between us, but I… would remain with him. In life or in death."

Arthur studied her, and decided it was sincerity, not manipulation. Is mercy strength? Uther would not have thought so, nor Caerleon, nor Odin. Merlin found it easier to forgive those who hurt him, than those who hurt Arthur. Caerleon alive would be problematic… but noble, on Arthur's part. If he came to regret such mercy, that would be through a failing of the other man – not himself. This decision he could always reconsider – which he couldn't do with its converse.

"He will remain imprisoned for a full day after our departure," Arthur said, slowly but decisively. "After that, he may have his freedom within the borders laid out in our existing treaty – but no authority. Not even to give a single order to the lowest of your servants."

Annis' knuckles were white in her lap, and her nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, but the emotion she controlled was relief.

"There will be no more mercy," Arthur said, trying to make the stipulation as much of a gentle caution as he could. "He transgresses the conditions at the cost of his life, and we will be sending ambassadors to assure ourselves they are being kept."

"What of our other borders?" Annis said.

"He steps not a foot into Nemeth," Mithian said immediately. Annis' eyebrows lifted slightly; she still didn't know the princess' identity, or her right to speak so determinedly, but Arthur nodded corroboration.

"Nor any kingdom allied with Camelot," he added. He couldn't help wondering if he'd just encouraged Caerleon – a personal enemy, no matter how the rest of his kingdom treated with Camelot – to seek his own allies against Arthur elsewhere. And mentally shrugged. That was Caerleon's choice – that or accept the consequences of his mistake and live peacefully.

"That is… very fair," Annis said. Her fingers unclenched and smoothed the fabric of her skirt as if she'd forced them to. "What else?"

Arthur's body relaxed in the chair, also; he closed his eyes momentarily to drag the old treaty into his recollection. There wasn't much he wanted changed – his father had been good at treaties, fair and practically balanced, even if he could have used his absolute power over the impressive fighting force of Camelot's knights more to his advantage.

"Stonedown, and Evorwick," he said. "The cost of reparations for both towns."

Annis sounded surprised that he hadn't demanded more land. "And no more? Done."

"Recompense for the knights lost from my patrol," Arthur added softly. "Lives taken in the breaking of the treaty terms."

She thought – but not very long, before she nodded. "That is reasonable."

"You can expect an emissary with an armed guard, once I've consulted with my council on these several amounts," Arthur said – and another idea occurred, even as she indicated agreement. "Who is your heir? I understand you and your husband have no children."

The queen stiffened, inhaling sharply through flared nostrils; her eyes were hard enough to strike sparks from flint. Behind Arthur, Merlin shifted and released a soft sigh of understanding – " _Oh_ …" – that drew Annis' glance upward at the young sorcerer leaning on the side of Arthur's seat.

Her lips tightened, but she allowed the admittance, "None that survived infancy."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Mithian murmured immediately, and to Arthur's ear her tone totally escaped pity for the older woman, in favor of genuine regret for the little lives lost. And Arthur himself was not so oblivious to miss a hint of explanation to the dynamics of Caerleon and Annis' relationship.

"Sir Morak," Annis said. She lifted her hand – elbow resting on the chair-arm – to flick a beckoning gesture with her fingers. The figure of a young warrior separated from the shadows at the far end of the chilly front chamber, open to the midafternoon, and joined them with a measured, wary tread.

He looked young – younger than Merlin, maybe, not yet twenty. Clean-shaven – or maybe shaving wasn't yet regularly necessary for him – his hair hanging in tangled, unclean locks past his shoulders, which did not make him stand out from his fellows. Nor did the ragged indigo he wore with his leather armor. Arthur looked to the sword at his hip, and could see no fault with it – conspicuously well-cared-for, in comparison to the rest of him.

Arthur met the young man's dark eyes – which flicked once to Merlin before finding his own determinedly, steady despite the fact that he swallowed twice. Arthur had to admire his courage, too. Young Sir Morak could have no confidence that his life would not be required by an offended and conquering king, or at least restricted like Caerleon's. Arthur didn't recognize him from his ordeal; his name had never been mentioned, but he was neither hiding nor fleeing nor rallying men in defiance of Arthur or Annis. Clearly willing to abide by his queen's decision, and pay for his king's mistake, whether he'd been aware of the torture, or not.

"I'd like to take him with us when we return to Camelot," Arthur decided.

Merlin made a noise that sounded intrigued, and the young man lost a shade of color. Annis said immediately, "As a hostage?"

Arthur paused. "As far as that description and its implications is effective in keeping the peace, for now and in the future." Perhaps having his heir in Camelot would halt any plans that might occur to Caerleon for rebellion. "In actuality, I'd like to treat him as one of my knights for an extended period of time – a year, perhaps. And if we come to an understanding, and if he forms bonds with my men, that will strengthen the relations between our two kingdoms when he takes Caerleon's throne someday."

"And in the meantime?" Annis tapped her fingernails at the end of her chair's arm, and glanced up at Sir Morak – who looked thoughtful and hesitantly hopeful, himself.

"The throne is yours. As long as the original treaty is kept, I'm content to keep the peace rather than declare war and suffer casualties on both sides." She was hard, but she also seemed both fair and honorable; if she didn't or couldn't keep her husband and any loyal warriors he could persuade to support him out of trouble – Arthur would be in a better position to counter said uprising from Camelot, and surrounded by the strength of his own army.

"There is a copy of that treaty here…" Annis turned to the side table, her hand reaching for the scrolls.

"I have no need to consult that," Arthur told her, having its main points already in memory.

She tilted her head in respectful appreciation. "We will see to it that the amended agreement is drawn up in writing for our signatures by dinnertime. Unless you'd rather…"

"No need to wait," Merlin said. "If I may?" He pushed away from Arthur's chair, crossing behind him to bend over the small table between him and Annis. Untying and unrolling the scroll, he held it up for Arthur's inspection. "Establish the adjustments immediately?"

With magic, Arthur understood. And wondered if he'd ever get to the point of making these suggestions first. Maybe it was better if he didn't, and they continued to come from Merlin. He gave a little nod and gesture, and Merlin blinked gold at the document, for the time it might have taken him to scan its lines. From his seat, Arthur could see the ink – decades old – twitch and squirm and resettle into new lines.

Nicely done. Both Annis and Sir Morak watched the performance with a mix of interest and apprehension, which put thoughts into Arthur's mind as his sorcerer put the modified treaty into his hand.

"One more thing," he said, half-distracted in skimming Merlin's magical changes to the document; of course they'd be permanent. And Mithian was reading over his shoulder, if he wasn't mistaken; she'd catch anything Merlin missed. "Remind me of your kingdom's official stand on magic?"

Merlin straightened. Annis flung a wary glance up at him; Morak shifted his weight and watched the sorcerer out of the corner of his eyes, his hands twitching as if uncertain whether to grasp the hilt of the sword in his belt or not.

"Caerleon didn't trust it," Annis said. "Didn't like it. Didn't hide that fact – but he didn't go looking for it, either. No one here –" Arthur translated, here in the stronghold – "uses it. But elsewhere it isn't prohibited, as long as no complaints or quarrels are raised."

And perhaps the people were too intimidated by their king to bring such accusations, as Uther had seemed to welcome. _But my adversary in this matter used magic…_

"I see," Arthur said mildly. "Well, you know Camelot's policy has changed. We would be extremely disappointed to hear of the persecution of anyone solely for the sake of magic, in any kingdom we have ties with."

"We will," Annis had to clear her throat, but continued smoothly, "keep that in mind, Your Highness."

"Very good," Arthur said.

Sir Morak blurted, resentful but also curious, "Why don't you just have your tame sorcerer enchant us all to bind us to your will?"

Annis tensed in her chair, eyes darting again to Merlin as if he was suddenly all too close, though he hadn't moved. Merlin gave them a surprisingly soft smile, considering how he felt about people making assumptions about the selfish or dark use of his power – a smile that erased the rest of Arthur's fears about changes to his friend's character.

"Magic shouldn't be used like that," Merlin said only.

A moment followed and Annis, at least, absorbed the implications of his simple statement. And turned the first smile Arthur had seen from the queen, on him. "There is something about you, Arthur Pendragon. Something that gives me hope for us all."

Arthur knew then that he'd made the right decision. Standing, he stepped to the table and spread the scroll, inking a quill and signing his name with an ironic flourish. Caerleon couldn't get it after a month of trying, and here he was after half an hour with Annis. Hopefully this was indicative of their future relationship.

The queen twisted sideways in her chair to add her signature below his – and maybe the first time that she'd done so with any authority. Arthur thought that she wasn't the type to make herself miserable with second-guessing or questions of betrayal of or loyalty to her husband and king. She'd saved his life and kept her kingdom sovereign, after all.

"I would be honored to have all four of you join me for dinner tonight," Annis added, weighting the scroll in place so it could dry before it was rolled. Maybe so that the more incredulous among her people could witness it for themselves, for a little while. "Along with Sir Morak, and a few of my chief warriors."

"We will, thank you," Arthur said. "However, I intend to depart for Camelot at dawn tomorrow…"

"Of course." Annis dipped her head. "Preparations will be made for your company. Morak, surely you have a busy afternoon and evening ahead of you?" The young man bowed, his eyes flicking between the three of them to convey circulated respect, and turned to stride away. "I am happy to entertain you all in whatever manner you wish, unless you simply desire rest and privacy? The room adjoining your current chamber is being prepared for your additional use."

Arthur considered. In spite of the bite of early winter in the air, he rather thought it would be good to feel an obvious extent of freedom. He was physically weary – easily tired after his ordeal – but restless, otherwise.

"Perhaps I'll take myself on a tour of the rest of your stronghold," he said to Annis, twirling his finger to indicate the exterior perimeter.

"Would you like me to –"

"No, thank you," he interrupted her offer. "I'm sure I won't get lost." No offense, but he didn't want any of her people anywhere around, for a while.

Her nod was very nearly a bow of acquiescence and respect. "My servants are yours for the duration of your stay – anything you need or want…"

"Thank you," Arthur said.

Turning for the open doors, he felt Merlin shift with him – and hesitate, prompting his remembrance of Mithian. She might need a cloak or something to keep warm, if she meant to accompany them – if she didn't, she was probably Merlin's company to keep, inside the castle. Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to be truly on his own, especially since he meant to talk to Merlin anyway.

"Might I have a few words with you, my lady," Annis said, to Mithian, but not excluding Merlin and Arthur from the question.

Mithian leveled a look of evaluation at the queen, and Arthur privately thought the princess of Nemeth could hold her own, if she so chose – and evidently she did, nodding to Annis and giving Merlin, and then Arthur, a reassuring glance. "I'll be all right."

Merlin hesitated a moment more, but when the two women drew together, and away from them, Arthur headed for the doors. His friend caught up with him a moment later, a warm solid support behind and beside him that Arthur realized, just that moment, how much he'd missed. He should say that out loud – but Merlin probably knew it already… and might also take the comment as a rebuke.

So Arthur didn't say anything, taking in the unkempt and disorganized courtyard at a glance, then heading toward the gate in the wall to his right. Merlin kept close, and it occurred to Arthur that the younger man had missed this, too. It was a warming thought in the chill-edged air and wan sunlight, after the loneliness of the cell and the suffering, after Caerleon had done his best to make Arthur believe he was useless and forgotten.

Which reminded him of something his father had once said about his current companion – _his life is worth less than yours_. A sentiment that was blatantly untrue, with all that he'd discovered about his cheeky peasant servant, since then.

"How do I get up on the wall?" Arthur said to one of the guards at the gate.

He was allowed through the gate and directed a dozen paces down the outer courtyard, where a set of open-sided stone steps led up to the crenelated walkway. Merlin followed silently, tucking his hands under his arms as they reached the top and Arthur turned to follow the wall away from the main gates.

The cold was clean, up here, the movement of air welcome though it chewed at his nose and lips and the tips of his ears. Tugging at the uncut ends of his hair and sliding strangely over his smooth-shaven cheeks.

"This feels good," he said to Merlin, looking out over the bleak cliffs and hills surrounding them. Stubby grasses and spindly shrubs and a handful of stunted trees – but mostly rock – and he missed the thick green forests around Camelot.

"This feels cold," Merlin countered. "There are windows in the room we can open…"

His tone implied Arthur was crazy or spoiled or both. Arthur loved it, missed it and was happy his friend wasn't tiptoeing around him… but it didn't provoke him as it used to, and might do again soon. He was just too glad to fill his lungs and stretch out his arms and fill his eyes with the sky from horizon to horizon.

"I didn't tell you," Merlin added. "Do you remember Alice? Gaius' friend? The thing with the manticore? Evidently she went to Nemeth when your father banished her, and Rodor appointed her court healer."

Arthur grunted, letting his suddenly-heavy arms drop.

"She started out with us, then diverted to Camelot. So Leon will know what Gwaine and I meant to do here. And Gwen and Gaius as well." Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin's smile quirk mischievously. "Maybe not the council, though…"

"My father's banishments don't seem to hold, do they," Arthur mused. And swayed to look his friend in the face more fully. "Caerleon never crosses this border."

Merlin agreed that Arthur's decrees should prove stronger than his father's, saying grimly, "He does, he dies."

Arthur considered him a moment – what he knew of Merlin, what he was still learning. Considered, while he turned and hitched himself up into one of the waist-high breaks in the crenellation of the wall, his back to the higher part to rest again, not making his body hold him upright while they lingered. Leaning his head back against the cold stone, he angled his neck so he could see Merlin – sideways to him, looking out on the desolate countryside with his arms still crossed against the cold, the edges of his hair and clothing teased, as Arthur's were, by the high smooth wind.

"I want to talk to you," he remarked. "I've been thinking."

The grin was edging into view again; Merlin shot Arthur a look – then obviously checked whatever quip had come to mind. "About what?"

Arthur breathed three times, appreciating anew what a privilege freedom and friendship were. "Mithian," he said mildly – and it was almost amusing, the way his younger friend went perceptibly stiller – and stiffer.

Until Merlin spoke. "Arthur, I'm sorry. I can't marry her – I've told her that. I know I've mucked up your treaty, and maybe Nemeth will –"

"Why not?" Arthur said. "Why can't you?"

Merlin shifted his weight; under his crossed arms, his hands were clenched in fists. "It's my destiny to serve you. Not to marry and have a family – I was distracted by that dream once before and she was _taken_. Now see what happened when I allowed myself to be distracted? I can't… risk losing either of you, if I neglect…" Merlin rarely struggled for words; when he was emotional, he was usually unself-consciously eloquent.

But usually they were discussing Arthur's thoughts and feelings and decisions. It felt good to turn the focus around – and not end up arguing. He didn't feel like he had the energy to argue just now – but he did feel like being stubborn.

"I have several hundred knights," he remarked. "No one's ever thought that required celibacy would result in more devoted service. Quite the opposite – knights marry and sire the next generation of knights."

"That's – not a very good comparison," Merlin told him, but there was humor in his tone and Arthur mentally gave himself a point, as if they were sparring or jousting verbally. "I'm not a knight – and do you really want another generation of sorcerers like me running about Camelot?"

Arthur turned an instinctive _Absolutely not!_ into a credibly decisive, "Yes."

Merlin shook his head, resisting belief. Arthur allowed himself a moment to think about the reality of Merlin's children, learning and performing magic in the halls of the citadel and the lower town…

But he'd also thought on the heir of Camelot, succession, and the woman he loved and missed with a fierce-dull ache. If his dreams came true, and he had a son… he wouldn't mind at all if Merlin's children and his were regular companions, and the next prince had a magic-wielding friend. Not one bit.

"When you came to Camelot," he began again. "Gaius told me. You found your destiny, you believed in prophecy. And it was a heavy burden for you, wasn't it? You felt like you carried it alone, and you worried about making the right choices…"

Merlin leaned against the opposite side of the break in the crenellation where Arthur rested, attentive. He gave a nod when Arthur paused, but offered nothing.

"Now, Gwaine," Arthur continued conversationally, "Has some very interesting ideas about destiny. Very interesting, considering his father was a knight under Caerleon. Until his father's death, I imagine he thought it was his destiny to do the same. Very interesting, considering how you and I met him, so many years later… and then he took his knight's oath in a kingdom that had a conflicted history with his homeland, and that banished him. Did he make his own destiny, or was he led into it by circumstances and choices?"

Merlin opened his mouth to answer – and checked himself again, a wrinkle appearing between his black brows. Arthur smiled in satisfaction, and gave himself another mental point.

"As for me. I was born into my destiny – maybe the same as Gwaine – and everyone in the kingdom knew it. I grew up boasting of my responsibility and my status, enjoying privilege and honor as my birthright." Arthur allowed the sarcasm, and the self-deprecating smile. Merlin knew. He remembered the prat who'd dared him into a fight he couldn't win without endangering his life – with or without magic – and then punished him for rising to the challenge. "Does my destiny mean I have to marry a girl of noble blood? Does Gwaine's rejection of his hereditary right to a title mean he can't? No more should it mean that you have to remain unmarried."

"Arthur…" Merlin shook his head again, unconvinced. But he seemed more resigned than resistant, and Arthur wasn't going to give up.

"And don't even tell me that I can't tell you how to go about fulfilling your destiny," he said. "I'm king. And you _constantly_ do the same for me."

"How can I forgive myself for being absent when you needed me?" Merlin said gently. "How can I consider, any kind of… reward, when I've failed you so?"

"You haven't failed - I'm fine," Arthur began to reassure him, with the intention of reminding him how badly off he'd been after his own torture, and Arthur hadn't been the one to rescue him then - but he wasn't finished yet.

"And how can I bear it, how can I live with myself if I allow another distraction that does end up with someone dead? You most of all."

Arthur's heart twisted in his chest, and he worked to make his tone equally gentle. "Merlin, you can't make me your reason for being – for living, for happiness. The day will come when I die – and I…" flashes of nightmare, lakes of fire and gale-scoured rocks – "worry about what you'll do, when that happens."

Of all reactions, he didn't expect a wide, cheerful smile. "Don't worry about that," Merlin told him. "I'm not going to outlive you. I'm going to die protecting you."

Arthur made a rude noise to let his friend know what he thought of that. "You can't always protect me," he said. "No, listen – I've thought about this. What if you had been there when we fought Caerleon?"

"I'd've killed him before he touched you," Merlin said, still too cheerful for Arthur's peace of mind.

"And maybe Annis would have declared war," he countered. "Assembled her army, marched to fight us… _But_ because you weren't there and I was captured and then you came for me, Annis surrendered. We have this treaty – and her goodwill, and the chance to befriend their heir. Which we wouldn't have, after a war and maybe enormous casualties."

Merlin had lost his grin, his eyes shifting to a point over Arthur's left shoulder that might have been the horizon, by the faraway look in them. "You think you were… destined to be captured."

Maybe. Maybe not. But it wasn't much different than how Merlin looked at his own brief period of torture, then execution and a year of living outlaw in Camelot's forest – maybe not the course they would have chosen, but still good had come from the suffering. And if it was Arthur's destiny to achieve some great victory or lasting peace with his death, he didn't want Merlin fighting that, or left destroyed by guilt.

"To ally with one more kingdom with minimal bloodshed," Arthur said, trying to be more logical than earnest. "This month, Caerleon did his best to break me and make me believe I'm worthless –" Arthur ignored the agony in the glance Merlin couldn't help. "And I did learn something from him. I slept on the ground and ate scraps and I wasn't a king. I was less than a slave and it didn't matter. I serve Camelot with my life, or with my death – Camelot does not serve me. That's what I want to ask of you, Merlin – to serve my kingdom. Not me."

"To seal the alliance with Nemeth, after all," Merlin said, sarcastic and unhappy.

"No, you idiot, not because..." Arthur was distracted by the appearance of a person at the top of the stair to the outer wall, ten paces from them.

A woman. Mithian.

Wearing a dark woolen cloak over her red-brown dress, she glanced at them before drifting to the wall to look out at the countryside. Not as though she was presenting herself and awaiting their attention, but as if she marked their company while remaining content alone with her thoughts. Arthur wondered what she was thinking, unsmiling and gazing in the direction of her own home kingdom. Homesickness and regret? Annis surely had inquired further into her identity – had she revealed her status, had she discussed her potential personal connection to Camelot?

"Merlin," he said.

Something in his voice or the direction of his attention alerted his friend to turn and notice the princess also – his arms beginning to loosen, then drawing tighter across his chest as he faced Arthur again with a pinched expression. And Arthur realized – he could pressure Merlin into the marriage for his own good, but if Merlin's heart resisted, to hold the belief that he _shouldn't_ , both of them would be unhappy.

So he said lightly, "You've accomplished something I never could." Merlin quirked an eyebrow at him. "You've gotten a princess to fall in love with you."

Merlin scoffed. "For a distinct lack of trying, on your part. You've only had eyes for Gwen for years."

Homesickness and regret, centered on the woman he loved, slammed into Arthur unexpectedly, stealing his breath. "I think," he said, "that any woman who knows us – you, me, any man – and loves us anyway, that's a miracle. And you don't question a miracle, especially when destiny – yes, I said it – seems to work it out that you can be with her and love her in return."

He watched realization start to dawn on his young friend's face, that Arthur might be talking about more than Mithian.

So he added softly, introspectively, "Does she take you from your duty and purpose, or does she help you do more, and be a better man? Is she understanding and supportive, or is she jealous and demanding?"

"She," Merlin began – and had to stop to swallow. "She's…"

"She loves you," Arthur said. "And that's a miracle. Now, tell me you don't love her too, after this month."

A flash of pain crossed Merlin's face, and it was Arthur's turn for realization. The younger man didn't just like or admire the princess, he wasn't just attracted to her. He _loved_ her… and that made his willingness to sacrifice their relationship and future happiness for Camelot and Arthur's wellbeing all the more staggering.

"Don't you do it," he told Merlin. "Don't you feel guilty for what happened to me and don't you punish her along with yourself. You love each other and you have each other, and you never know how long that's going to last."

And in a week, Merlin might mock him if he said something like that, if his voice broke like that again. In a week, he might bluster and insult, to cover the emotion as unmanly. But just now…

"Go," he said, and it was very nearly a plea. "Go to her, be with her. Please. For the sake of your happiness with her, and my peace of mind."

"You really think that –" Merlin began.

"Love can be destined," Arthur said. "And yes, now I truly believe you were meant to be with her. Go."

For one more heartbeat, Merlin remained, his eyes locked with Arthur's, great emotion swirling just under control. Then he pushed away from the wall, whirled and strode swiftly to the princess.

Arthur breathed deeply of air so cold it stung his nose and throat and brought tears to his eyes; for a moment he indulged the longing he felt to be in Gwen's arms, hugging his arms to his chest against the increasing cold. Then he blinked the moisture away to watch Merlin claim Mithian's hand and begin to speak to her with earnest alacrity.

Whatever he was saying brought a look of surprise to her face – and then a sort of sweet intensity – and then a blush. The words, though inaudible to Arthur, were unmistakable on Merlin's mouth.

 _Will you marry me…_

Mithian's wide smile had never looked happier. Her _Yes!_ was just as obvious, and she didn't hesitate to throw her arms around his neck, flinging herself against him for his embrace.

Merlin wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder, his body bent almost protectively around hers. They stood so for a long moment, Mithian's fingers smoothing into Merlin's black hair at the back of his neck, before Merlin pulled back and lifted one hand to brush her chin. And the princess willingly tipped her chin up to meet his kiss.

It didn't seem to be the first time either, both of them unselfconsciously losing themselves in the moment together.

Arthur stopped watching, choosing instead to turn his eyes toward unseen Camelot, a score of leagues distant. He was glad he hadn't heard the words Merlin used to betroth himself to Mithian, not with his own vow yet unspoken, hot and impatient in his heart.

He couldn't wait to get back home. To Camelot, and to Guinevere.

 **A/N: Dialogue from ep.4.5 "His Father's Son".**


	25. Guinevere

**Chapter 25: Guinevere**

The key was to keep moving, keep busy. When it got too quiet or she sat too still for too long alone, her thoughts overcame her. Turned towards worry, and threatened to overwhelm her.

It wasn't much better to keep company and attempt conversation, though the arrival of Nemeth's middle-aged healer Alice had reduced the needs of Camelot's physician for an extra pair of hands. In Merlin's absence, Gwen and Tobe could keep up, but with Alice present, there wasn't enough for the level of busyness that Gwen's state of mind needed for distraction. Not even with the onset of cold weather that increased minor illness through the citadel and lower town.

The company she kept was mostly, the princess of Gawant and the lady of Descalot. Elena was missing Gwaine and Ally was missing Merlin – her tutor and her cousin – so even when they managed to chat about something unrelated to men in general and their men in particular, their subdued anxiety seemed to shuffle through undercurrents and knock together and magnify. It was stifling.

Elena understood what Gwen was feeling the best of anyone, but though the princess seemed more self-confident this trip than the last, a week's company wasn't enough for them to move past brave reassurances to whatever fears they were attempting to deny with busyness. Instead they all tried in vain to ignore _if worse comes to worst…_

Today they were making clothes to be given away among the poorer villagers, sewing garments from cloth Elena had purchased. Gwen's idea, and she hadn't thought it through completely – that neither Elena nor Ally had the experience she did, in handling the rougher thicker fabrics commoners used for cold-weather practicality.

"No, it's not working," Elena said for the third time. Ally had edged their chairs right up next to each other under the window in Elena's guest-chamber, to experiment with spells of magic upon needle and thread and woolen cloth. "See, it can't make the stitches fine enough for – ouch!"

"Sorry…" Ally tried to smother a giggle. "You're not supposed to put your finger there while it's sewing."

The younger girl had been both quiet and sympathetic since the arrival of Sir Carados, alone and injured – the former quality more endearing than the latter, particularly because she was glowing subtly from her own happy betrothal, and the daily attention of her knight. But she'd responded to Princess Elena without the intimidation she'd displayed in the presence of Princess Mithian – mostly, Gwen thought, because Elena was not a proper lady the way Mithian was. Elena spilled wine at dinner, and tripped on the hem of her dress when she was wearing shoes, and something about that unsophisticated clumsiness gave Ally confidence.

"While it's _trying_ to sew," Elena sighed, grimacing at Gwen. "I suppose this is more useful than embroidering yet another tapestry, but I'm just no good with a needle."

Gwen managed a sympathetic look. "If the weather was better, we could have the horses saddled for a gallop."

"Mithian would've liked that, too," Ally remarked, letting her project crumple into a ball on her lap. "I can't imagine wanting to join a quest like this, even with Merlin there."

"I know what you mean," Elena said ruefully. "I think, on the whole, I'm happier leaving the excitement and danger for Gwaine to deal with. Waiting like this is no fun, but…"

Gwen tilted her head, pausing with needle in hand to examine the ache in her chest from another angle. Would she rather be there, like Mithian was, than to sit and wait for word to come, while days passed disappointed?

"I suppose it depends," she said, remembering certain adventures of her own. Moments of excitement and thrill of victory, a certain pride in herself for contributing to that - but there was also the exhausting tedium of travel, the tension of fear of failure. She couldn't help thinking of her own brief experiences, captured by Cenred's men to force Arthur to endanger himself at Fyrien, captured by the war-chief Hengist by accident - compared to facing the bandits in Ealdor, or planning to rescue Elyan. "If a girl can be one of the warriors, or end up another damsel who needs saving herself."

"Did you just call the king a girl?" an unexpected voice piped up.

Ally jumped. Elena blinked, and Gwen looked around the room, near the floor, behind the furniture. And – there, nearly hidden by the gathered legs of the chairs at the table.

"Tobe," she said sternly. "It's not nice to eavesdrop. You should have let us know you were there."

"Sorry?" The boy wormed his way out, on his belly on the stone floor, grinning up at them. "My ma said what you were doing. And me da doesn't have enough work to keep _him_ busy."

Gwen's heart throbbed once, dully. She remembered how hard it had been for her, after the lady Morgana's disappearance from Camelot. Hoping every day for her friend's return, having to realize – painfully, over the course of weeks of doubt and second-guessing and self-recrimination – that her life and purposes had to change.

And then her mistress had returned so changed…

She felt sympathy for Orryn, and clung all the harder to the hope – no, the belief, that Gwaine and Merlin would have more luck rescuing Arthur than Arthur and Merlin had in finding Morgana, that year, and that Arthur would return unchanged. Maybe the fact that Merlin no longer had to hide his magic, would make the difference. She had to believe the stories Gaius and Arthur had told her about their friend's magic. She had to trust in the destiny of the king and his sorcerer. She had to.

Tobe continued, "And Gaius wants me to –"

"Ah, there you are, young man."

Gwen let her own sewing drop to her lap, turning in her chair to see the woman who'd pushed open the door ajar. Comfortably plump, with gray streaked liberally through the long brown braid pulled over the shoulder of her shawl, and lines of life – joy, and sorrow – adding a dependable expression to her face.

"Good afternoon, Alice," Elena said cheerfully.

"My ladies," Alice returned, smiling. "Tobe, Gaius is looking for you – there's some washing up he wants done."

"Aw…" Tobe climbed to his feet in degrees of protest.

Gwen respected the courage it had taken the older woman to dare Camelot again after her banishment last year. Leon had refused to let the council take action against her, for multiple reasons, and judging by the way she and Gaius treated each other and acted around each other and spoke about each other, Gwen suspected she knew part of the reason Alice had come. As much for the message, as for the people she was bringing it to.

Courage, and hope. Gwen drew strength for both from Alice's example – and thought Elena and Ally might as well.

"Are you busy, Alice?" she said. "If you're not, it would be nice if you could stay for a bit?"

"I know there _must_ be a spell to animate a needle properly," Ally added.

Alice's cheeks bunched in a conspiratorial smile, but she watched Tobe drag his feet, under her arm and out the door, before she entered the room. "There is," she said. "But if I don't miss my guess, your thoughts are anywhere but your sewing, dears. Even you, Gwen."

Gwen glanced down and realized she hadn't folded the hem properly on the second sleeve, which meant it didn't match the first, and would need to be pulled apart and re-fitted. She sighed.

"Is it true," Ally said, betraying the fascination with stories of romance the young-and-in-love seemed to have, "that you were engaged to Gaius, years ago?"

"I was," Alice said, drawing a chair to Elena's other side and retrieving the princess' sewing placidly. "But then Queen Ygraine died, and Gaius was willing to practice medicine without magic – and I was not. I left Camelot, and he stayed…"

"Do you ever wish you'd stayed with him?" Elena asked, slipping a shoeless foot under her other leg in the seat of her chair, and wriggling to a more comfortable position.

"I used to. I imagine Gaius sometimes wished he had come with me, too…" Alice plied her needle calmly. "But that's life, my dears. Choices and consequences. If I'd stayed, I'd have been tempted to the use of magic – caught perhaps and executed. And if Gaius had come with me – then what would have become of Merlin. And Arthur."

"And Gwaine," Elena said seriously, then swayed toward Ally. "And Lancelot."

 _And all of us_ , Gwen realized. How would Morgana's life have changed – and hers as well. Elena might be married to Arthur, and Ally still hidden away in Descalot.

"Those first days of being apart," Alice said softly, eyes on her work, "I couldn't have imagined ever being glad things worked out like they did. But time – and destiny perhaps – have a funny way of separating threads, and then retying them." Her fingers performed the action as she spoke. "The men you love, my dears, are at the heart of a kingdom. They are great, brave men, who may do great, brave things – and may give their lives for it. Now, or anytime in the future. What men like that need from their women, their wives, is a different sort of strength – you will fully learn this in time, I think. The strength of true and loving and solid support, when they win. When they lose. When they _lose_."

Gwen was finding it hard to breathe, though she understood what Alice was saying. She couldn't let herself fall to pieces in Arthur's absence – there was likely to be many, in the years to come – and expect his return to put her back together, as if her happiness and wholeness was his responsibility, another weight to carry. Especially if he returned wounded himself, in body or in spirit. Yes, she needed Arthur and she wanted to need him, but that need couldn't be absolute if she sometimes had to stand for him or without him.

She missed something Elena said, in that moment.

"Oh, no, I think you can and should trust Merlin," Alice was replying earnestly, looking up from the sewing she'd taken from the princess. "He will do his best and give his utmost, in situations like these. He always has done, Gaius assures me – and his power is considerable. But there may come a day when it's not enough, and he will blame himself – so you, my dears, must not. Do you understand?"

Elena and Ally were nodding – one thoughtful, one simply obedient. Gwen said unsteadily, "Alice. Do you know something we don't know."

The older woman's face relaxed into a soft smile that held a tender sort of pity. "I do. Half an hour ago riders were sighted on the southern road, riders with a red-cloaked escort, coming in at a walk."

The southern road led toward Caerleon. And Gwen knew that Leon had the patrols waiting at the border for their king and the men who'd entered enemy territory to rescue him. Coming at a walk – she didn't know what to make of that. Were there injured, then, or none – or worse?

"Why didn't you tell us?" Elena exclaimed, almost sending herself sprawling as she leaped up from her odd position on the chair.

"Because if you'd rushed right to the stair and courtyard, you'd have been waiting anxiously this past half-hour," Alice said, unperturbed. "Now you can go knowing it'll be minutes, only, til the riders arrive."

Gwen's heart beat harder, more deliberately, more emphatically. She laid aside her own sewing in the act of rising, and reached the door a scant second after Elena, allowing her friend who was already wife to one of the returning fighters – hopefully it was them – to go first.

And realized, along the corridor and down the stair, around a corner and across a gallery, she herself wouldn't have dared to gallop along as Elena was, in the lead. Shoeless, too – Gwen noticed Ally wasn't following, nor Alice, and lengthened her own stride to keep up with Elena.

The princess abruptly reached to grab Gwen's hand, without looking at her, and Gwen squeezed it. Elena kept that hold – and Gwen was glad of it – as they emerged into the afternoon sunlight at the top of the courtyard stair, blinking even as early-twilight winter stretched shadows across the cobblestones.

Gwen was aware that there were more people than was normal for the time of day, and more lingering in place than moving purposefully through. She was aware of Sir Leon, on the third stair next to the equine statue. She was aware of Gaius off to the side – and shivered to wonder if he might be needed in his professional capacity, even as she strained her eyes to see through the barbicon passage. It seemed unfair that the citizens of the lower town would all know that Arthur was back – if he was back, and if he was all right – before she did.

The suggestion of a horse appeared – shadow, silhouette – and then _him_.

Bareheaded, his golden hair long enough to hide his ears, but blown back from his forehead. Dressed in unfamiliar clothes, a plain brown cloak thrown back from one arm – so he could lift a gesture of acknowledgement to his people who bowed to him, or called out; she'd seen him do it - Arthur led the procession into the courtyard at a slow walk, rocking slightly in the saddle.

Gwen glanced past him to see Gwaine beside Sir Carados from the patrol, in his scarlet cloak. Elena let out a little gasp of relief and pleasure and moved down the stairs on an interceptor course; her husband was upright and grinning, and therefore fine. The next pair were black-haired, Merlin and Mithian. Gwen caught the flash of the princess' wide smile – at something Merlin had said, she thought – and the sorcerer leaned in his saddle to look straight at Gwen between Gwaine and Carados, giving her a firm nod and an unmistakable smile.

She swallowed her own gasp of relief – _you can and should trust Merlin_ – and held down a tide of gratitude rising around her heart, her attention drawn back to Arthur.

He wasn't smiling. Not the charming, brilliant, beloved-by-all expression she'd seen so often, privately adored and publicly scoffed. He was intent – almost ignored the beaming stable-boy waiting for his reins. Greeted Leon abruptly but fervently; Gwen knew they'd have a second such meeting, later and in private.

Gaius swayed forward – but his head was turned as though he was looking at another of the riders – Merlin, almost certainly – and he stayed in his place. Joined by Alice and Tobe – who was cheering so energetically he seemed in danger of tumbling down the stairs. Gwen thought Gaius would insist on his turn with Arthur in private later also – and if he didn't, she was going to. Just to be sure.

Everyone was cheering. She couldn't hear herself over the delighted rejoicing of the entire citadel, so it seemed, for the return of their king. She thought she might be content just to watch him for now, to see him in more ways that were all familiar to her – the shift of his weight, the turn of his head, the swing of his arm – to see that he was the same.

She was going to insist on her turn for privacy, too. Just… later. She could wait, as long as she could indulge the desire to watch him.

But he looked at her, up the stairs at _her_ , and her heart and breath tangled in her throat.

He still wasn't smiling – he took the stairs two at a time and she moved instinctively to meet him. Seeing, closer now, how thin was his face and how dark were his eyes. One step below her, he reached, and she lifted herself into his arms unhesitatingly, their bodies colliding without care for the hundreds of eyes that watched them.

Arthur clung to her fiercely, as he never had before, his arms trapping her tightly against him; she held her breath to feel him trembling. He exhaled against the side of her neck, and she lifted one hand from his shoulder-blades to smooth his hair and cup his neck. The passionate desperation frightened her, speaking silently of the horrors of his ordeal. His need for her, that she'd never felt so open and bare and tenacious, before. That centered and grounded her, and made her able to put away her own fear and loneliness and the difficult burden of waiting, to comfort him with her strength.

"Oh, _Guinevere_." It was a whisper, and a groan.

She shivered, and smoothed his hair, and tears pushed out of her eyes to have him _here_ and _safe_ , at last. "I'm here. I waited… I love you. You're home – it's all right."

"I don't ever want to leave you again." His voice was rough with emotion she wanted both to soothe and to revel in.

He would, though, she knew. He'd have to, and she'd farewell him with a smile. But just now, it was perfect that he felt that way – even better that he'd say and show it.

"I don't ever want to lose you," he added, drawing back slightly.

Still frowning in earnest intensity, and she almost couldn't hold his gaze when he looked at her like that. She let her hands trail down his arms as he lifted his from her waist to cup around her face, and ended up gripping his forearms, letting him touch her, showing him as much of herself as she could in the moment.

 _You won't lose me_ , she tried to tell him with her eyes and her smile, in spite of inadvertent tears. _I am_ yours.

Without hesitation, he bent to capture her mouth with his – possessively assuring himself of her, presence and willingness. Breathless, she tried to match the insistent movement of his lips, to surrender what he sought, to give him what he needed.

 _Everyone must be watching. I don't care._

When he broke away from her, he twisted his hands to catch hold of hers – and holding the link of their eyes, he went down on one knee.

Her heart seemed to freeze for a moment in shock – then raced on recklessly. Because he hadn't forgotten where they were, or the fact that they were surrounded. But he was behaving as though they were of equal rank, or she of greater – the king! kneeling to her! The rest of the crowded courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

"Say you'll marry me?" Arthur said, clearly but softly, somewhere between a command and a plea. "I don't want to keep waiting. I don't want to lose any more time. I want to be _with you_. Please say yes."

Gwen was incapable of speech. Instead she sank into a curtsy that spread her skirts on the stairs, lifting his hands to hug them briefly to her chest – to kiss them, the hands of her liege and her lover – to rest her temple against his knuckles.

And then to nod.

"Is that a yes?" he said, and she heard his missing smile in his voice.

She turned her face to him, daring to meet the blue fire of his eyes again, and give him all her happiness in a smile. Maybe the effects of what he'd endured this month had prompted this unexpected proposal – but her answer was still the same, always and forever, whether planned or spontaneous.

"Yes, it's a yes. With all my heart."

He straightened his shoulders, lifting his head – and then he gave her that proud-happy grin that won everyone's hearts. But the roar of cheered approval that rose and rolled around them took her utterly by surprise.

Arthur lifted her to her feet and turned to acknowledge once again the feelings of the people he loved, also – including dozens of knights, a princess, the lord and lady of Gawant… she didn't suppose the council could have much to say against their union, after this moment.

She caught Merlin's eye, out of everyone; he was still down on the cobbled courtyard. Mithian had a hold of his elbow, radiant in her happiness for Gwen, but Merlin seemed wholly content with the princess' touch, and gave her a grin very like the one she'd seen on his face – frequently – the day of Arthur's coronation. _Knew you could do it._ There was a flash of red at the princess' wrist, and Gwen guessed that if Mithian was wearing Merlin's unusual gift, she could count on their own betrothal to be announced soon.

Two more tears started to her eyes to think, this should have been his reception, when magic was freed and his service officially recognized – she'd done nothing for the kingdom, in comparison to what Merlin had done. But Merlin was always so happy when his friends' dreams came true… And there was Lancelot and Ally, and Gwaine and Elena – Gaius and Alice, she might add? – all beaming to share that happiness.

It was humbling to think that her love for Camelot – for Arthur – was going to lead her into his form of sacrifice for the kingdom. That indomitably cheerful waiting, even if it was for a private dinner after a council session had been extended.

She didn't feel ready – who ever was? – but the way he squeezed her hand and smiled down into her eyes made her realize, she wouldn't have it any other way.

…..*….. Epilogue …..*…..

The day was the very definition of spring, the air still dawn-dew fresh, the sun warm in a shy-new way. Beams and breeze touched the peach-silk of Gwen's gown, her shoulders and her forearms, bared by cutaway sleeves that swayed from her elbows as she turned her face upward and closed her eyes.

For the moment alone, in the middle of a place she'd never been before, surrounded by a crowd.

Arthur and Merlin both claimed credit, but whoever's idea it had been, the oddly shaped white-blue dragon-egg sat on a section of tree-trunk, in the sand of the middle of the jousting-grounds. The stands were filling up with common people – a double handful of druids in twos and threes mixed throughout. Some of the nobility – from Camelot and from other kingdoms – who'd chosen to be present for the unprecedented occasion, but still keep their distance.

Gwen dropped her chin, feeling the slide of curls she was letting grow out, over the silk back of the dress. Not even their royal wedding had drawn such a diverse crowd – though maybe some of the foreign dignitaries had decided to give Camelot's new queen the once-over this month rather than last month, and see a baby dragon hatch at the same time.

Her eyes caught on one couple, seated on the lowest row of benches – well, Elena was seated, on a cushion, and Gwaine was leaning over both elbows propped on the wall that protected the audience from the violence the lists usually exhibited. He'd probably crowd right up to the egg if it was up to him, but. Almost six months he and Elena had been married. And though neither said anything, the way Elena's hand draped over her belly – the way her figure swelled just enough to wonder, the way they both beamed – made Gwen guess, there was a good reason for them to choose a seat in the stands.

One month she'd been married also, to the king of Camelot. It made her feel hot and cold at once to contemplate motherhood – but she did wonder when that might be her blessing to anticipate, too.

The lord and lady of Gawant weren't alone, though. Beside them sat attendant Elena's maid that had traveled with them, and another guard wearing the chevron tabard of Gawant. They'd been introduced to the fresh-faced young man as a magic-wielding friend of both Merlin and Gwaine, from their time as fugitives – it made Gwen think of what Alice had told them about the threads of destiny, separating only to join together again.

Vivian and her husband Lord Balan. And behind them, Gwen recognized Orryn and his family – Tobe standing on the seat which brought him almost to his father's height; their similarly fuzzy-curly hair haloed in the morning light.

Gwen smiled, remembering how excited Tobe had been at the arrival of the dragon-books Mithian's family had sent as part of the Yule present for the princess who'd remained in Camelot with her betrothed. And how Merlin's eyes had twinkled at Gaius over the books Tobe was too eager to read to realize he was being _educated_ by the young sorcerer at the same time.

Just next was young Prince Gunnor, brought by his grandfather King Rodor, along with his uncle's family from Nemeth, since evidently his mother – the next queen – was too close to her time of birthing for them to travel. Gwen had been satisfied with the genuine pleasure with which the prince and Merlin had greeted each other, and Gunnor and Tobe had been seen in company since their arrival - usually with Merlin, so Gwen hadn't concerned herself with their antics.

"He isn't here yet." A soft voice cut through the babble of the crowd close to Gwen's elbow.

She turned to see Ally, dressed demurely in the dove-color she favored, her hand tucked into the bend of Lancelot's elbow. He looked down on her, but she met Gwen's eyes, and Gwen wasn't sure which of them the young sorceress was addressing – or who, exactly, she was referring to.

"Neither of them are," Gwen answered, casting another glance around.

"Urbert planned on speaking to the king before the ceremony," Lord Bernard said, moving into Gwen's view from behind Lancelot. His hands tucked behind him and his hair queued against the breeze, his sharp eyes scanning the gathered hundreds.

"Ah," Gwen said. Urbert and Agravaine had not given up trying to persuade Arthur to smash or bury the egg – if they hadn't button-holed the king, then he was busy ducking them. It wasn't as though Merlin would _do_ anything til Arthur arrived, anyway.

"Please excuse me," Lord Bernard added. "I see Lord Isdern, and I should speak to him about re-drawing the border after the floods in the mountains this spring."

"Would you like me to –" Lancelot began.

"Of course," Bernard said, gesturing politely to his future son-in-law. "By all means."

Gwen couldn't read the nobleman at all, but Arthur and Merlin weren't worried that the lord of Descalot had found anything to disapprove of in his daughter's betrothed. Lancelot and Ally had agreed to a full year before the wedding – to give all three a generous chance to adjust to the idea, Gwen sometimes thought. But no one yet doubted the marriage would take place; lady and knight were so obviously in love.

This time, though, Lancelot relinquished Ally with a respectful inclination of his head, following Bernard. Ally gave Gwen a parting smile, happy and content, angling her body in another direction. "I see Hunith over there…"

And of course the young sorceress would be more comfortable with her cousin's mother – and Gaius and Alice, Gwen saw – than the ruler who'd replaced King Odin as her father's over-the-border counterpart.

"This is absolutely _amazing_."

Gwen turned again, already recognizing the voice of another visiting noble – one of the few brave enough to come down on the sand near the egg. And maybe because the big knight she was betrothed to, made her feel brave.

"Lady Sarra," Gwen said, smiling. "Isn't it a beautiful day to hatch a dragon?"

She'd worried, in spite of Arthur and Merlin's optimism, that Percival's abrupt betrothal to such a young stranger, might cool from the honor and safety of the moment toward regret and resentment. But after two days with Alined's representative to the gathering, Gwen was reassured. Sarra seemed level-headed for her age, pretty and graceful but by no means empty-headed – and quietly, lastingly thrilled to claim Percival. A friend and a body-guard, good-looking and strong, and she'd easily fall in love with him in a few years when she was ready. For his part, Percival was content to have his hand held; to be needed by such a sweet young lady as companion and protector. Perhaps it had begun as fulfilling his duty, but Gwen could see that they were comfortable together after the winter spent away from Camelot; Percival looked happy and his boyish grin spread often when he looked down on his little slip of a lady.

"I can't believe so many people came," Sarra said, spinning in place to look up into the stands, filling with people. Her light-blue silk gown contrasted handsomely with the reddish tint of her short hair. "I think my grandfather would have to _order_ our people to attend something like this."

"I keep telling you," Percival murmured, "Merlin is nothing like Trickler…"

"And I keep believing you." Sarra beamed up at her big knight, who showed that wide sudden smile again in response. "When we get home, we'll have to think of a way to persuade my uncle to let us come to Camelot more often. And stay longer." She turned to Gwen. "And then one day, we simply won't leave again."

"We'll look forward to that day," Gwen told her honestly. Everyone liked Sarra, she was bright and kind and not arrogant or stiff at all. Gwen was glad she had Percival with her, in the court of a man who'd tried to sacrifice what he ought to have defended. _She_ felt protective of the younger girl.

"There's Bors' family," Percival said. "He promised to introduce you to his daughters, remember?"

"Of course! Please excuse us, Your Majesty." Sarra bobbed a little curtsy.

Gwen smiled again to watch them go – an expression that chilled at the sound of the next voice approaching.

"There has been… some talk. Of course."

Camelot was packed full of people who'd traveled to see Merlin hatch the egg; Gwen didn't think a single bed in the whole citadel, or the pair of town-taverns, was left unclaimed. But standing here and alone, meant she was tacit hostess to everyone. She adjusted her expression to politeness and turned to the one woman present who equaled her in rank – and far surpassed her in experience and attitude, though Queen Annis had been perfectly serene as a guest. And Arthur held nothing against her, and no one minded Sir Morak, either, and there hadn't been so much as a whisper of rebellion from Caerleon. Gwen had watched him, but after the third time she'd seen Morak in company with Sir Brenner, she'd stopped watching and trusted.

"Talk of what?" Gwen said to Annis, feeling her spine straighten involuntarily, noticing that Morak had crossed the sand to speak upward to Gwaine, hands on his hips.

She noticed that the heir of Caerleon was escorting two ladies, one with curly brown hair and one with gray in her curly brown hair. Gwaine's mother and sister; Gwen had spoken with them, but nothing beyond formalities. They both seemed uncomfortable with the place or the company or both – Gwen still hoped for a chance to coax their guard down. Neither seemed anything like the good-humored and talkative knight.

"Sir Percival. Lady Sarra. The circumstances of the betrothal." Annis was sharp and forthright – stating provocative fact in hopes of learning something.

Gwen only shook her head. "People will always talk. Those who do, don't know Percival."

The other queen made a noncommittal sound, and Gwen had the feeling she was being scrutinized, rather than Percival or Sarra. It was uncomfortable, but at least Annis didn't seem to search for salacious tidbits to gossip about, but rather for understanding. Gwen didn't suppose she begrudged her that.

A quick footfall caught her attention a moment before someone collided with her – someone taller and stronger, bigger and harder. His arms wrapped her up to hold her close as his body rocked with her reaction, and the breath of his chuckle was warm on her ear. Arthur murmured, "Did you miss me?"

She twisted, feeling his chainmail armor through his tunic and her dress; it wasn't near as nice as _just him_ and he knew she felt that way, but she liked that he demonstrated his love for her so publicly. And his grin warmed her inside, as much as the proud thrill of the sight of the kingly crown resting comfortably on his golden hair. He was magnificent, and he was hers.

"Every second that we're apart," she declared, letting her exaggerated enthusiasm mock them both.

Annis quirked a smile and drifted away to join Sir Morak, and Arthur released Gwen except for her hand. "I had to take the long way to get here; Urbert and Agravaine were trying to corner me."

"They should know better than that by now," Gwen responded. Arthur's one remaining relative didn't care for her at all, as a person or as his queen, both of them knew that, but at least he was rarely in Camelot, and ran his estate efficiently at all other times.

"Oh, look, Iseldir's here," Arthur added, his attention over her shoulder. "With what's their names… Shara? Shana? And that other one."

Gwen looked, but the druids that had caught Arthur's eye remained hooded in the spring sunshine, and she didn't recognize them. "Where's Merlin? And…" She realized she hadn't seen Mithian yet, either.

"Hm? He was right behind me – said he could magic us past Agravaine. I told him no…" Arthur turned to look back the way he'd come, and Gwen followed his gaze, to the corner of the arena, where mounted jousters would enter the lists.

"There he is," Gwen said, noting the unmistakable blue of Merlin's new jacket – a loose-flowing garment that fell almost to his knees; she and Mithian had made it for him during the winter when they weren't busy with Gaius or Geoffrey.

"Oh, for the love of…" Arthur cut off his exclamation of exasperation.

Gwen looked closer to see that Merlin was leaning up against the wall of the stands, just out of sight of most of the people gathered. The golden-brown of Mithian's silk skirt and sleeve were visible as she clung to him, running her fingers into the back of his hair, and they were… kissing. She swallowed a snicker, feeling her cheeks heat up as the sight of those two sparked her own imagination – and memory of such times when Arthur had backed her into a wall to kiss her thoroughly weak-kneed and breathless.

"They've got a week before their wedding," she reminded her husband.

That way, Merlin and Mithian had decided, those they wanted to stay for their vow-ceremony could stay after the dragon-hatching – Mithian's family, Merlin's mother and Lord Bernard, and their closest friends who didn't live in Camelot at the moment, Percival and Gwaine and their traveling companions.

"You think they'll make it?" Arthur retorted, then lifted his hands to cup his mouth and bellowed, " _Merlin_!" The sorcerer extracted one blue-sleeved arm to hold out his forefinger to them in wordless request for the allowance of another moment. Arthur added, " _The egg's cracking_!"

Gwen couldn't help glancing, though of course Arthur had only said it to provoke his friend.

But the comment served to capture the attention of the rest of the arena's audience, whoever had missed the king shouting the name of the last dragonlord. In that moment of gasped silence, when Merlin turned from Mithian to face them, the muted _thud_! _thud_! of immense wings slammed into the air of the lists.

Gwen's heart shot up to her throat. That sound would always and forever remind her of the week following the great dragon's escape – and Arthur nearly dying to save her life. No matter that Merlin had explained and apologized, no matter that she knew he had complete control over the enormous creature, and the great dragon no reason to attack Camelot anymore – her first instinct was terror. Arthur's hand enfolding hers was comforting – his left hand, which meant he wasn't gripping his sword-hilt in an apprehension of his own, as they blinked into the bright blue of the sky.

The shadow of the dragon swooped over them, wings curled to allow the great beast to alight on the open area just behind the stands where competitors usually erected their tents. As planned, and publicized – but the crowd seemed to react much as Gwen had, looking, she realized a moment later, to the king for reassurance.

And the king's wife, right next to him – which was her. Gwen forced her hand down from her throat to her side, and lifted her chin as the dragon settled himself and swung his head around to face them – or the egg, which was close enough that it probably made little difference.

And – fight the expression of shock back to serene dignity – the dragon bent his neck in an almost-respectful bow. Everyone watched Arthur do the same, though neither spoke.

Merlin joined them at a trot, tossing a salute to the great dragon – and taking the majority attention. His eyes were bright and he was fairly thrumming with energy, as he had been the whole week, after he'd brought the egg back from the ruined ruins, and visiting nobility and royalty had started arriving.

Gwen wondered if Mithian had kissed him to focus or distract that energy.

"Shall I just –" Merlin said to Arthur, gesturing at the egg.

"It's your show," Arthur answered, pulling Gwen's fingers to the crook of his elbow, and tighter against his ribs with his shrug.

Merlin turned, lifting his eyes to the stands, dropping them to those who were brave or privileged enough to draw closer to the egg at the center of the lists – Percival and Sarra, Lancelot and Alayna, Annis and Morak, Mithian's brother… Mithian arm-in-arm with Hunith, beside Gaius and Alice.

"I'm not used to making speeches," Merlin said clearly into the hush of expectant silence. "That's Arthur's responsibility, usually… But I want you all to know how incredibly grateful I am, to have this chance. To be here with all of you – my friends… my king and queen."

He turned, and his heart was brimming in his eyes even through a brilliant grin. And he bowed – deeply and sincerely – to Arthur; Gwen felt her husband's breath catch, though the sardonic half-smile didn't slip from his face.

"There was a time," Merlin continued, straightening to address the crowd again, "when I would have kept this egg hidden. When I would have hatched it alone, and in secret, somewhere deep in the woods. But now… it seems I'm going to trust everyone, with this new little life. Please – be kind." His voice slipped, and Gwen's eyes were welling a bit, too. "Please, be patient. With this dragon – with that one…" Wryly said, and with a wave to the great creature towering over the stands, who huffed a small cloud of smoke and rolled its great eyes. "And with me."

He paused. It was so quiet Gwen could hear the sand rubbing under his heel as he turned to step close to the egg. He crouched, extending his hands as if the egg was a campfire to warm them by.

" _Aithusa_ ," he said, the hint of a growl in his voice making a shiver chase a chill down Gwen's spine.

Well, after all… _Dragonlord_. She remembered something else, from her first meeting with her extraordinary young friend – _Rough, tough, save the world kind of man. In disguise._

A crack raced across the shell's surface, forking, splitting – hesitating – then exploding outward in fragments.

And a tiny white dragon stretched wings and neck delicately. A last bit of shell wobbled atop the scaly skull, no bigger than a cat's, and Gwen resisted the urge to giggle – it was cute and majestic at once. Merlin's audible sigh halted suddenly, as if he'd had to swallow the involuntary overflow of emotion.

The entire crowd sighed.

"Aithusa?" Arthur broke the silence – and the tiny dragon swung around to cock a golden eye at him.

Merlin turned also, rising to his full height and swiping at his eyes – which didn't leave the new dragon. "It means, the light of the sun. Kilgarrah says that white is rare, and it's a good omen for the land we're building together."

He looked over his shoulder at the great dragon, just as the little white one leaped to Merlin's shoulder, wings spreading briefly, then settling with a shake and tremble. Gwen flinched at the sudden movement, but Merlin only shifted to accommodate the weight, twisting his head to keep Aithusa in clear vision. Gwen wondered if the claws were ripping the material of Merlin's blue jacket – and decided not to care.

"It's - perfect." Arthur cleared his throat, stepping forward. Pulling Gwen with him.

Aithusa eyed them a moment, then bowed his – her? – head in a bow every bit as solemn as it's great cousin's. Arthur returned the bow, and Gwen bit her tongue on a host of questions that occurred, as the others near them pressed closer – to see, to offer to touch, to voice those questions and more, all at once.

Gwen was content just to watch the young sorcerer who was such a unique person, even without the magic, such a special friend. He seemed ecstatic at the attention, comfortable at the center of the press of people as he never had been before, and Aithusa fairly preened. Mithian's brother Ybor had his curious daughter on one shoulder so she could see over people's shoulders, and Percival was down on one patient knee, Sarra standing on his leg with her hand curled around his neck for balance, beaming.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Arthur murmured in her ear. "When I remember – last year, what I thought about dragons. What I thought about _magic_ …"

"I know," she said. How much they might have missed, had Merlin's destiny not brought him to them. Or if he'd been a different sort of person. "I know."

The great dragon startled the crowd like a school of fish, rearing back and breathing a burst of fire into the air, before taking to flight. Aithusa craned his – that question answered a moment ago, that information passed like wildfire through the people crowding the sand after the hatching – neck, coughing his own small flame in response and sending the people back a step.

Gwen shielded her face from the gusts stirred by those great leathery wings, and found herself drawn by Arthur's arm, a little apart. And now she could see, those who pressed close were few in number, most people content to observe from a few paces away, and move on, discussing the infant dragon – and related topics – with their companions.

"Your Highness," someone said behind them, and Gwen turned as Arthur did.

A young man with sharp blue eyes that looked too old for his face, and black hair brushing the lowered hood of his druid's cloak around his neck. His companion was hooded, a girl his own age with brown curls spilling over her shoulders. Shy – or at least self-conscious; she wouldn't meet Gwen's smile.

"You probably don't remember me," the young man said, a tiny smile tremulous at his lips. "I'm Mordred? You once saved my –"

"Mordred!" Arthur exclaimed, immediately reaching for the boy's hand.

Gwen began to remember a young boy with a druid's tattoo, bloody and feverish, but past Arthur's shoulder she saw Merlin's head snap around to hear Arthur say the name. And though his eyes were still bright with excitement, his smile was gone. He began to push between people toward them, his eyes on the younger couple.

"Of course I remember you!" Arthur continued. "I'm glad you came today."

"I'm glad we _could_ come today," Mordred responded, with an odd little emphasis. His companion raised her eyes to Arthur with a flitting glance. "This is Kara, my… betrothed."

"Oh, congratulations," Gwen said sincerely, but the girl was looking at the sand again, clearly uncomfortable – and then Merlin reached them.

"Mordred," he said, and Gwen had never heard him use a tone like that before – so cold it was almost threatening.

Arthur turned to look Merlin fully in the face as if he were surprised, too, but their young friend never looked away from the druid. Aithusa was watching the pair from his shoulder with complete focus; Kara's head came up to stare at either Merlin or the baby dragon, Gwen couldn't tell.

"I didn't come to make trouble." Mordred showed his hands empty; his smile twisted slightly. "Why should I? I feel nothing but gratitude for King Arthur – saving me from execution when I was a boy, lifting the bans of the Purge…"

Aithusa leaned close to Merlin's ear, tucking his wings and curling his tail around Merlin's shoulder. Merlin paused as if he were listening, then slowly relaxed, as if he had changed his mind on something.

"Very few escaped the Purge entirely unscathed," he said. "I am sorry for your losses." His eyes flicked to the girl and he added with a warmer kindness, "Both of you. I wish it could have ended sooner."

"I wish so, too," Arthur added. "Are you two attached to a local clan? You intend to remain in Camelot, or –"

"No, we're traveling," Mordred said – calming as he switched his attention back to Arthur. Gwen decided she didn't want to understand the causes and nuances of the strange tension between the druid and the dragonlord. "To the Western Isles. Start a new home, and a new life."

"Well," Arthur said – maybe oblivious to the relief that relaxed the set of Merlin's shoulders, or maybe just ignoring it, "if you ever return, we'd be happy to hear that you're doing well."

"Thank you," Mordred said, with a respectful bow of his head. "I also wanted to say, I was sorry to hear about the Lady Morgana."

Which seemed to threaten to freeze Merlin right back up again – if not for Aithusa cooing something incomprehensible into his ear. Could he speak already? Or only in the dragon tongue?

"Thank you," Arthur said, his voice roughened slightly with genuine emotion – remorse, regret, maybe. "I still miss her – she was… very special. I wish her life could have… been kinder to her."

"So do I," Merlin murmured, like a confession.

Mordred darted him a sharp glance from inscrutable blue eyes, but Merlin's head was down as if he felt that remembered defeat. The inability to save Morgana – after Fyrien, or before Morgause had so influenced her against Camelot.

"So do I," Gwen said, because she still wondered, sometimes, if she couldn't have offered more support. If she'd known…

"It was not to be," Mordred said – glancing down at Kara, who tightened her grip on his arm as if to comfort him. "But I suppose – it's best to leave the past in the past. Especially when there are such signs for hope and unity in the future."

He gestured to Aithusa, who stretched his nose closer to Mordred's fingers – and Merlin's grin was sudden and brilliant and real.

"Fare you well, my lord," Mordred added, bowing once more. Kara met Gwen's eyes with a little curtsy, and a soft almost-smile – then both druids turned to depart. And when Mordred reached back to lift his hood into place, the crowd absorbed them.

"Well, that was – interesting," Arthur said, looking at Merlin in a way that made Gwen guess, he was going to demand an explanation later, when they were alone.

"That's a good word for what that was," Merlin responded, finally dropping his eyes from the disappearing pair. And jumped as a feminine arm in a brown-gold silk sleeve slid around his ribs, under his elbow – followed by Mithian's wide smile at his shoulder.

"Oh, there you are," the princess said. "I've been trying to get closer to you…" Merlin grinned in a self-assured sort of way and the princess added, deliberately teasing, " _Aithusa_."

Merlin tossed his head back to laugh, and Arthur grinned in approval. The dragon cocked his head, then leaned forward toward Mithian curiously.

Gwen couldn't help thinking about motherhood, and the next generation. And if – _when_ – there was a new heir, he'd be surrounded and supported by the best of his father's men, and their women – and their children.

Another crown prince, and another young sorcerer… and the story would continue.

But, Gwen thought, as Merlin and Arthur turned back to the eager members of the crowd, and the noise rose again around them – their story wasn't near over, yet. And she couldn't wait to see what else destiny might have in store.

.

.

.

 **A/N: I don't like to write "The End" because I don't think it ever really is, the end. But that's all I'm writing for this arc, except for a bonus chapter that goes several decades into the past, which I'll post after this chapter tomorrow, probably. Thanks very much to everyone who joined me on this journey – and especially those who supported my efforts with reviews and favorites and so on!**

 **Starting in two days, I'll be busy with NaNoWriMo and another original fic. But I have a collection of shorter magic-reveal stories that I'll be posting under their own heading "Revelations," that will get us through November, and maybe the end of the year.**

 **Then I plan to do a modern a/u that will feature abused!Arthur and private-investigator!Merlin, and commercial magic. "The Penned Dragon", where people can pay to have the Veil brushed aside and spend an hour with lost loved ones…**


	26. Their Sons' Fathers

**A/N: I've had this idea for awhile now, kind of a prequel oneshot, but I decided to attach it to the arc of this trilogy b/c I discussed the idea of Gwaine's destiny a bit more in this story…**

(Ch. 20) _Annis didn't blink. "And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised after all that you'd ally yourself with Camelot, Gwaine."_

 _"What does that –" Gwaine cut himself off. "So what now, Highness?"_

(Ch. 24) _"Gwaine," Arthur said. "What is it?"_

" _The queen was just telling me…" Gwaine began. Then blinked, and recognition of Arthur drew him back toward his usual attitude. "Something about my family. My father…"_

 **Chapter 26: Their Sons' Fathers**

The knight stalked through the corridors of Camelot's citadel, clenching his fists and his jaw, seeing the crackle of tension in the air around him tinged with red.

Damn Pendragon. Straight to hell, if they'd have him.

He wasn't completely sure where he was heading – not back to his quarters, his wife and children, not til he was cooled down again – but he was glad that those he brushed past left him alone, servant and knight and nobleman. Though really, he couldn't see how things could be made any worse by a confrontation with someone else.

Damn stubborn sonuva…

He stopped at the end of a long open gallery, just before shadow turned to sunlight. Gripping his fists like that would hold the hot liquid frustration-rage inside. Swelling up in his chest, pushing at the backs of his eyes… Stepping out to the sun would either pinprick those tears lose or dry them up in a salty crust at the back of his throat. And he didn't want that, he didn't –

"Geart!"

The knight looked up at the call of his name, saw his young friend jogging toward him across the courtyard, his cloak billowing behind his lanky frame. The younger man slowed, hopping up into one of the arched openings of the gallery wall, folding into a crouch and leaning on the stone. His grin was wide and brilliant through the short hairs of his unshaven beard-scruff, still sparse because of his youth, and his dark eyes were lost in the shadow.

Geart's heart twisted as if trying to escape the pang of missing his friend already. Of beginning to realize the enormity of what the young king he'd also called friend had taken from him.

"Bal – you're back," he managed.

"You said you wouldn't miss me," the younger man said, catching or intuiting something of his emotion, but attempting to tease him out of it.

"I didn't," Geart retorted. "But what about Gaius?"

"He didn't miss me," Balinor said, still grinning. "He'll never admit to missing me. And anyway, he said if he and Alice needed an extra pair of hands, with Her Majesty's condition, he knew a girl who could come. What was her name? Something like Honey, or…"

"How was the trip?" Geart said.

"Fine." Balinor's perpetual enthusiasm was a bitter-sweet balm to Geart's heart. Aside from his wife, the young sorcerer was one of the only people that dared his temper successfully. "Good. The mountains were cool at night, but the fire of the dragons more than made up for that."

"Feorre Mountains, right?" Geart said.

"Yes, through Merendra Forest. And if it wasn't spell memorization, then it was quizzing on dragon anatomy or genealogical recitations and my father saying, _How can you sleep at a time like this_." Geart couldn't help his smile; Balinor had captured the older dragonlord's deep rumbly voice perfectly. "Sometimes I have had it with the training, and I wish they would all leave me the hell alone." Balinor grinned. "The lords, not the dragons."

Geart took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Be careful what you wish for."

"Why?" Balinor said immediately, standing to the inside of the gallery. "What's wrong? Did something happen? What happened?"

"Uther," Geart spat, feeling the fire in his belly smolder up again. "And Nimueh. He's determined to give her everything she asks for, for that damned Isle of hers, and he won't listen to reason. I can't imagine why he feels like he owes them."

Balinor sighed. He wasn't privy to the king's counsel, but gossip trickled down even to the servants. "What did you do?"

"I told him exactly what I thought. That he was being a blind ass and he'd come to regret it someday. When he realized how indebted his son's kingdom was to these priestesses…"

"We don't know it's a son," Balinor said absently. He could say that because the news of an heir born or lost would be the first thing the dragonlord representatives from Camelot heard on their return. "You said that to his face?"

"And in council," Geart admitted. He believed a king should have – and appreciate – advisors and friends who told him the truth… but maybe he could have been smarter about how and when. He knew Uther was more on edge, the closer the queen came to her time of childbirth.

"Geart," Balinor breathed, his eyes widening. "What did he – you're not in the stocks."

"Not this time." Geart felt his lips twist, the hair on chin and lip bristling. "I have an hour. Pack my things – and my family – and take my opinions to someone who wants them."

"You're banished," Balinor said hollowly, like he felt his world was ending, and Geart cringed again at the hard truth of leaving, separation from his oldest and dearest friends. "Ye gods, I can't even… Have you told-"

"Gwaine! Don't run!" An authoritative female voice at the far end of the gallery interrupted them, and Geart closed his eyes momentarily before turning.

His little son, his own heir, came pelting down the gallery, gleefully disobedient to his mother's voice in his newfound ability to toddle faster than a walk. Geart could tell himself it was because the little boy loved his father and couldn't wait to be near him – but more likely, it was his companion.

"Hey, you!" Balinor said happily, as if it hadn't hit him yet, what Geart's banishment meant. He crouched, long arms extended to catch Gwaine, then swung him high in the air. Gwaine laughed out loud – a rippling sound that usually lifted Geart's heart from shadow to light – his long black curls flying back from his forehead before Balinor twisted to catch him seated on his shoulders.

"Is it true," Geart's wife said, striding toward them, their daughter clinging to her skirt and watching Geart from beside her hip. "Tell me yourself - you couldn't keep your mouth shut, and now we're banished?"

"Well," Geart said defensively, "if Uther wasn't such an arrogant pain-in-the-ass-"

"Treason," Balinor said plaintively.

"Doesn't matter anymore," Geart reminded him glumly.

"We'll talk to the king," Balinor proposed, holding Gwaine with one hand around each chubby ankle. "We'll get someone to talk to him. Maybe Gaius –"

Geart's wife huffed, waving a dismissive hand as her eyes sparked with temper of her own – understandable in the circumstances, losing everything through no fault of her own, and helpless to change anything. "I already spoke to Alice. Gaius says no one can help us. Uther's mind is made up."

"And that means he won't change it," Geart said, watching Gwaine pull tufts of Balinor's hair and grin at the effect. "If there was one thing I could change about our king, it would be that _he_ could change."

"Maybe Her Majesty –" Balinor began.

"Already in confinement," Geart's wife interrupted impatiently. "If she doesn't send for me I can't speak to her, and what are the odds that she'll decide she needs to talk to me in the next… how long have we got?" Her hands were shaking.

Geart knew she was scared for all of them, for the future. He moved forward, taking her in his arms, feeling the tension in her body surrender, though slightly. "Three-quarters of an hour," he said softly into the mahogany-rich hair he loved. "Your jewelry, my armor, a change of clothes for everyone. My two horses…"

"I'll see that they're saddled and provisioned for you," Balinor spoke up. "You two can focus on everything else."

Because they all knew, Uther meant what he said and didn't ever retract an ultimatum or a deadline. If they weren't gone, they could very well be arrested, all of them. Uther wouldn't pretend not to notice if one hour slipped closer to two.

"Where will we go?" Geart's wife whispered, close to his ear, the only place she'd allow her worry to sound so desolate. "Maybe Godwyn –"

"No, we can't go to Gawant," Geart said, stepping back but keeping hold of her shoulders to steady her. "We can't ask Godwyn to offend Uther like that, taking us in."

"What about Nemeth?" Balinor said. "My father says Rodor doesn't mind opposing Uther occasionally, and he's got his heir already, you could –"

"No," Geart said. "We'll go to Caerleon. There's enough unrest there the king will be glad of my sword."

"Unrest?" She and Balinor spoke at the same time. Gwaine rocked and giggling incongruously at the back of Balinor's neck, and the gangly sorcerer reached to unfasten his cloak before it throttled him without thinking about it.

"Internal," Geart said reassuringly. "Nothing to do with Camelot."

"If that's what you think is best," his wife said, uncertain and unhappy. He nodded firmly, and she gathered her skirt with one hand and her daughter with the other. "Well, then. Nothing to be done. And we're wasting time here – come, sweetheart."

"I'll just be a minute," Geart called after them. His wife nodded over her shoulder, speaking downward to their little girl, but didn't slow.

"Her Majesty will miss your lady wife," Balinor said. "Maybe after the baby is born, she can catch Uther in a good moment, petition for your return…"

Geart pressed his lips together. "I can't expect that."

"I'll visit," Balinor promised. "I know I can't go with you now – your damn Knights' Code…"

Geart grinned ruefully, though probably the dragonlords had their own code of conduct to follow, even when it came to honor in punishment. "Don't worry about us," he told his young friend seriously. "It'll work out, or it won't, but… Bal, you've got to take care of yourself, now. Be smarter than I was, when it's your turn to take your father's place on the council. Don't make Uther an enemy with your – unyielding commitment to truth and honesty."

"Lie to my king?" Balinor scoffed sardonically.

"I'm not saying that. I'm just… I never thought Uther would turn on me. We've been through… so much together."

"You helped him conquer Camelot," Balinor remembered the fact as something he'd learned as a boy, not something he'd experienced personally.

"He's very jealous of his image, his reputation," Geart said softly. "More so, the more years he's king. He can't let anyone else see anything they might think was weakness. He's not going to put any one man before the kingdom's good as he perceives it, no matter how many years of loyal service that man has given."

Balinor reached up, pulling Gwaine off his shoulders and into his arms. "I'll be careful," he said, as Geart's son squeezed his neck with chubby arms. "You take care of this little warrior, and I'll see you soon."

"Sure you will," Geart said, taking his son by the middle, his hands enveloping the little body hips and ribs, and teasing his arms away from the young man who was friend to them both. "You promised to have our horses ready."

Balinor rolled his eyes, but there was a little grin showing in spite of his beginning beard. "Have it your way," he said. "But write, when you get where you're going to stay."

"I will." Geart began to back away, though it was tearing his heart in two in his chest.

Somehow Balinor, more than Uther, represented Camelot for him. The willingness to fight and die and defend that formed the camaraderie of the knights; the eagerness to learn that characterized scholars like Gaius and Geoffrey and Alice; the quiet humility of service, just doing what needed to be done for the good of the kingdom, of the common people. Balinor was all of them – noble, student, servant – and more. Magic, and dragons.

Everything Geart had sworn blood and honor to protect – and now his sacrifice was being denied.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, and turned Gwaine's reaching, snatching hand into a baby wave. Gwaine made a defiant-whiny noise, bouncing in Geart's arm.

"When it's your turn," Geart called. "You better bring your wife and son to meet us."

Balinor made a rude sound. "That'll never be me. Can you imagine giving up the wild freedom of the skies for the responsibility of my own hearth?"

"What about your heritage?" Geart said. Because he always intended to pass his sword and title to Gwaine, and because Balinor was too good with Gwaine, never to have any children of his own. "No more dragonlords?"

Balinor waved his hand, stepping back up into the gallery arch, heading in the direction of the stables. "There are so many of us. I don't need to make more."

"You never know what destiny has in store for you," Geart called in reminder.

"Go pack!" Balinor returned. "We can say farewell in half of an hour!" Another wave, and a grin that at least looked natural at the distance, and the young dragonlord was gone.

"Ba!" Gwaine said mournfully, finally accepting his place on his father's forearm, clinging to his shoulder as he turned, and for a moment Geart relished the small warm weight, so trusting in his father to carry him, to protect and provide. He needed that right now, when he was not at all certain of that ability.

"Well, boy," Geart said to him. "So you'll not grow up in Camelot after all. And you'll not swear to serve Uther's son…" Melancholy squeezed its grip around his ribcage momentarily. "And you'll never see Bal's children learn magic, and…"

A single tear betrayed him. Geart swiped it quickly, squaring the shoulders that his little son still looked backward over.

So destiny changed. That was all right – a new life could be made, and he could still make sure that Gwaine was raised to a knight's honor and duty in another land.

He stopped short at the juncture of gallery and stair, gazing down an intersecting corridor. Uther had paused at the far end, also passing at that very moment. His expression gave nothing away, and Geart mourned the loss of this friend and king, too. Uther could be great, if he only… if he didn't…

Holding Gwaine in place on his shoulder, Geart bowed to his king for the last time. Perhaps fatherhood would change Uther.

The king nodded gravely to acknowledge him. Then turned his face away as if determined to forgot both the incident, and Geart himself, and continued on out of sight.

And maybe it was better to remember that Camelot was more than one man. She was all her citizens, altogether, myriad and diverse and balanced, and other kingdoms needed men committed to honesty and fair treatment, too. And if Geart's time here was done… so be it.

Gwaine drew back to give his father a childish frown of incomprehension, pudgy hands on Geart's bearded cheeks. Geart smiled tremulously and began to walk again, to quarters that weren't his any longer, and a family thrust out into the world, exiled. For now.

"For the love of Camelot," he told his son and heir. So they would trust to destiny to lead their path.

 **A/N: I think I like this a little better preceding this arc: Refined by Fire, Released by Truth, and Renewed by Love. Rather than just letting it lead into the series as we know it – yes Gwaine became a knight of Camelot and Merlin's friend, but if he died inadvertently betraying Arthur, who died too young, and neither of them** _ **knew**_ **Merlin… Nope. It belongs before this trilogy.**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


End file.
